THE  PRESENT  AND  THE  PAST 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR: 

PASTORS   AND   MASTERS 

BROTHERS   AND   SISTERS 

MEN   AND  WIVES 

MORE  WOMEN  THAN  MEN 

A  HOUSE  AND   ITS  HEAD 

DAUGHTERS   AND   SONS 

A   FAMILY   AND   A   FORTUNE 

PARENTS   AND   CHILDREN 

ELDERS  AND  BETTERS 

BULLIVANT   AND   THE   LAMBS 

TWO  WORLDS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

DARKNESS  AND  DAY 


THE  PRESENT  AND 
THE  PAST 

by 
I.  COMPTON-BURNETT 


JULIAN  MESSNER   Inc.   NEW  YORK 


Printrti  by  special  arrangement  with 
Victor  Gollancz,  Ltd.,  kondon 


All  Rights  Reserved 


?K 

liis:. 

JFORNIA' 

6  COS" 

v!-'l-'^  i  -    . 

-M 

^^38 

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CHAPTER   1 

Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  Henry  Clare. 

His  sister  glanced  in  his  direction. 

"They  are  pecking  the  sick  one.  They  are  angry  because 
it  is  ill." 

"Perhaps  it  is  because  they  are  anxious,"  said  Megan, 
looking  at  the  hens  in  the  hope  of  discerning  this  feeling. 

"It  will  soon  be  dead,"  said  Henry,  sitting  on  a  log 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees.  "It  must  be  having  death- 
pangs  now." 

Another  member  of  the  family  was  giving  his  attention 
to  the  fowls.  He  was  earnestly  thrusting  cake  through  the 
wire  for  their  entertainment.  When  he  dropped  a  piece 
he  picked  it  up  and  put  it  into  his  own  mouth,  as  though 
it  had  been  rendered  unfit  for  poultry's  consumption.  His 
elders  appeared  to  view  his  attitude  either  in  indifference 
or  sympathy. 

"What  are  death-pangs  like?"  said  Henry,  in  another 
tone. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  his  sister,  keeping  her  eyes  from 
th2  sufferer  of  them.  "And  I  don't  think  the  hen  is  having 
them.   It  seems  not  to  know  anything." 

Henry  was  a  tall,  solid  boy  of  eight,  with  rough,  dark 
hair,  pale,  wide  eyes,  formless,  infantine  features,  and 
something  vulnerable  about  him  that  seemed  inconsistent 
with  himself.  His  sister,  a  year  younger  and  smaller  for 
her  age,  had  narrower,  deeper  eyes,  a  regular,  oval  face, 

5 


THF.    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

siultlcn,  nervous  movements,  and  something  resistant  in 
her  that  was  again  at  variance  with  what  was  beneath. 
Tobias  at  three  had  small,  dark,  busy  eyes,  a  flufiy, 
colourless  head,  a  face  that  changed  with  the  weeks  and 
evinced  an  uncertain  charm,  and  a  withdrawn  expression 
consistent  with  his  absorption  in  his  own  interests.  He 
was  still  pushing  crumbs  through  the  wire  when  his 
shoulder  was  grasped  by  a  hand  above  him. 

"Wasting  your  cake  on  the  hens!  You  know  you  were 
to  eat  it  yourself." 

Toby  continued  his  task  as  though  unaware  of  interrup- 
tion. 

"Couldn't  one  of  you  others  have  stopped  him?" 

The  latter  also  seemed  unaware  of  any  break. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  the  nursemaid,  seizing  Toby's 
arm  so  that  he  dropped  the  cake.  "Didn't  you  hear  me 
speak?" 

Toby  still  seemed  not  to  do  so.  He  retrieved  the  cake, 
took  a  bite  himself  and  resumed  his  work. 

"Don't  eat  it  now,"  said  Eliza.  "Give  it  all  to  the  hens." 

Toby  followed  the  injunction,  and  she  waited  until  the 
cake  was  gone. 

"Now  if  I  give  you  another  piece,  will  you  eat  it?" 

"Can  we  have  another  piece  too?"  said  the  other 
children,  appearing  to  notice  her  for  the  first  time. 

She  distributed  the  cake,  and  Toby  turned  to  the  wire, 
but  when  she  pulled  him  away,  stood  eating  contentedly. 

"Soon  be  better  now,"  he  said,  with  reference  to  the  hen 
and  his  dealings  with  it. 

"It  didn't  get  any  cake,"  said  Henry.  "The  others  had 
it  all.  They  took  it  and  then  pecked  the  sick  one.  Oh, 
dear,  oh,  dear!" 

6 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"He  did  get  some,"  said  Toby,  looking  from  face  to  face 
for  reassurance.   "Toby  gave  it  to  him." 

He  turned  to  inspect  the  position,  which  was  now  that 
the  hens,  no  longer  competing  for  crumbs,  had  transferred 
their  activity  to  their  disabled  companion. 

"Pecking  him!"  said  Toby,  moving  from  foot  to  foot. 
"Pecking  him  when  he  is  ill !  Fetch  William.  Fetch  him." 

A  pleasant,  middle-aged  man,  known  as  the  head 
gardener  by  virtue  of  his  once  having  had  subordinates, 
entered  the  run  and  transferred  the  hen  to  a  separate 
coop. 

"That  is  better,  sir." 

"Gall  Toby  'sir',"  said  the  latter,  smiling  to  himself. 

"She  will  be  by  herself  now." 

"Sir,"  supplied  Toby. 

"Will  it  get  well?"  said  Henry. 

"I  can't  say,  sir." 

"Henry  and  Toby  both  'sir',"  said  Toby.  "Megan 
too." 

"No,  I  am  not,"  said  his  sister. 

"Poor  Megan,  not  'sir'!"  said  Toby,  sadly. 

"The  last  hen  that  was  ill  was  put  in  a  coop  to  die," 
said  Henry,  resuming  his  seat  and  the  mood  it  seemed  to 
engender  in  him. 

"Well,  it  died  after  it  was  there,"  said  Megan. 

"That  is  better,  miss,"  said  William. 

"Miss,"  said  Toby,  in  a  quiet,  complex  tone. 

"They  go  away  alone  to  die,"  said  Henry.  "All  birds  do 
that,  and  a  hen  is  a  bird.  But  it  can't  when  it  is  shut  in 
a  coop.    It  can't  act  according  to  its  nature." 

"Perhaps  it  ought  not  to  do  a  thing  that  ends  in  dying," 
said  Megan. 

7 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Something  in  that,  miss,"  said  William. 

"Why  do  you  stay  by  the  fowls,"  said  Eliza,  "when  there 
is  the  garden  for  you  to  play  in?" 

"We  are  only  allowed  to  play  in  part  of  it,"  said  Henry, 
as  though  giving  an  explanation. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear !"  said  Eliza,  in  perfunctory  mimicry. 

"WiUiam  forgot  to  let  out  the  hens,"  said  Megan,  "and 
Toby  would  not  leave  them." 

Toby  tried  to  propel  some  cake  to  the  hen  in  the  coop, 
failed  and  stood  absorbed  in  the  scramble  of  the  others 
for  it. 

"All  want  one  little  crumb.    Poor  hens!" 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Eliza,  again  grasping  his 
arm. 

He  pulled  it  away  and  openly  applied  himself  to  insert- 
ing cake  between  the  wires. 

"Toby  not  eat  it  now,"  he  said  in  a  dutiful  tone. 

"A  good  thing  he  does  not  have  all  his  meals  here,"  said 
William. 

"There  is  trouble  wherever  he  has  them,"  said  Eliza. 
"And  the  end  is  waste." 

The  sick  hen  roused  to  life  and  flung  itself  against  the 
coop  in  a  frenzy  to  join  the  feast. 

"It  will  kill  itself,"  said  Henry.  "No  one  will  let  it 
out." 

William  did  so  and  the  hen  rushed  forth,  cast  itself 
into  the  fray,  staggered  and  fell. 

"It  is  dead,"  said  Henry,  almost  before  this  was  the 
case. 

"Poor  hen  fall  down,"  said  Toby,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
knew  the  experience.    "But  soon  be  well  again." 

"Not  in  this  world,"  said  William. 

8 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Sir,"  said  Toby,  to  himself.   "No,  miss." 

"It  won't  go  to  another  world,"  said  Henr^'.  "It  was 
ill  and  pecked  in  this  one,  and  it  won't  have  any  other." 

"It  was  only  pecked  on  its  last  day,"  said  Megan.  "And 
everything  is  ill  before  it  dies." 

"The  last  thing  it  felt  was  hunger,  and  that  was  not 
satisfied." 

"It  did  not  know  it  would  not  be.  It  thought  it  would." 

"It  did  that,  miss,"  said  William.  "And  it  was  dead 
before  it  knew." 

"There  was  no  water  in  the  coop,"  said  Henry,  "and 
sick  things  are  parched  with  thirst." 

"Walking  on  him,"  said  Toby,  in  a  dubious  tone. 

"Eliza,  the  hens  are  walking  on  the  dead  one!"  said 
Megan,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  her. 

"It  is  in  their  way,  miss,"  said  William,  giving  a  full 
account  of  the  position. 

Megan  looked  away  from  the  hens,  and  Henry  stood 
with  his  eyes  on  them.  Toby  let  the  matter  leave  his  mind, 
or  found  that  it  did  so. 

"Now  what  is  all  this?"  said  another  voice,  as  the  head 
nurse  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  was  led  by  some  instinct 
to  turn  her  eyes  at  once  on  Megan.  "What  is  the  matter 
with  you  all?" 

"One  of  the  hens  has  died,"  said  Eliza,  in  rapid  sum- 
mary. "Toby  has  given  them  his  cake  and  hardly  taken 
a  mouthful.  The  other  hens  walked  on  the  dead  one 
and  upset  Miss  Megan.  Master  Henry  has  one  of  his 
moods." 

Megan  turned  aside  with  a  covert  glance  at  William. 

"Seeing  the  truth  about  things  isn't  a  mood,"  said 
Henry. 

9 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"It  all  comes  of  playing  in  the  wrong  place,"  said  Miss 
Bonnet.    "Vou  should  watch  the  hens  in  the  field." 

"How  can  we,  when  they  are  not  there?" 

"You  know  they  are  there  as  a  rule." 

"Very  nice  place  to-day,"  said  Toby,  who  had  heard 
with  a  lifted  face  and  a  belief  that  the  arrangement  was 
for  his  convenience.    "All  together  in  a  large  cage." 

"Well,  it  has  been  a  treat  for  you,"  said  Eliza. 

"Because  very  good  boy,"  said  Toby,  in  a  tone  of 
supplying  an  omission. 

"A  strange  kind  of  treat,"  said  Henry.  "A  hen  pecked 
to  death,  and  hungry  and  thirsty  at  the  last." 

"Hens  don't  mind  dying;  they  die  too  easily,"  said 
Bennet,  with  conviction  in  her  tone,  if  nowhere  else. 

"It  was  worse  than  being  pecked  to  death.  It  was 
pecked  when  it  was  dying." 

"They  always  do  that,  sir,"  said  William,  as  if  the 
frequency  were  a  ground  for  cheer. 

Toby  stood  with  his  eyes  on  the  dead  hen. 

"William  put  him  in  a  cage  by  himself." 

William  carried  the  hen  away,  smoothing  its  feathers  as 
he  did  so. 

"William  stroke  him,"  said  Toby,  with  approval. 

"The  hen  didn't  know  about  it,"  said  Henry. 

"He  did  know,"  said  Toby. 

"It  couldn't  when  it  was  dead." 

"So  William  stroke  him,"  said  Toby.  "Poor  hen! 
Toby  saw  him  know." 

William  resumed  his  work,  and  Toby  applied  himself 
to  attendance  upon  him,  a  duty  that  made  consistent 
inroads  upon  his  time.  When  William  signified  his  need 
of  a  tool,  he  fetched  it  with  a  light  on  his  face  and  his 

ID 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

tongue  protruding,  and  thrust  its  prongs  towards  William 
in  earnest  co-operation. 

"What  should  I  do  without  you,  sir,  now  that  I  have  no 
boy?" 

"William  have  one  now.   Not  Henry." 

"You  grow  such  a  big  lad,  sir." 

"Not  lad,"  said  Toby,  with  a  wail  in  his  tone. 

"Such  a  big  boy,  sir." 

"A5  big  as  Henry.  Just  the  same.  No,  the  same  as 
Megan,"  said  Toby,  ending  on  an  affectionate  note. 

"Shall  I  help  WiUiam?"  said  Henry,  getting  off  his  log. 

"No,  Toby  help  him.   To-day  and  to-morrow." 

"Isn't  it  time  for  your  sleep,  sir?" 

Toby  flickered  his  eyes  over  Eliza  and  Bennet,  and 
smoothly  resumed  his  employment. 

The  latter  were  engaged,  in  talk  so  earnest  that  it  might 
have  been  assumed  to  relate  to  their  own  affairs.  Their 
interest  was  given  to  the  family  to  whom  they  gave  every- 
thing. In  Bennet's  case  it  was  permanent,  and  in 
Eliza's  susceptible  of  change.  Megan  sometimes  listened 
to  them;  Henry  had  not  thought  of  doing  so;  and  Toby 
heard  their  voices  as  he  heard  the  other  sounds  about 
him. 

Eliza  was  a  country  girl  of  twenty-six,  with  the  fairness 
that  results  in  eyes  and  brows  and  lashes  of  a  similar 
pallor,  and  features  that  seem  to  fail  to  separate  them- 
selves from  each  other.  She  had  an  uneducated  expression 
and  an  air  of  knowledge  of  life  that  seemed  its  natural 
accompaniment.  Bennet  was  a  small,  spare  woman  of 
forty-five,  with  a  thin,  sallow  face  marked  by  simple  lines 
of  benevolence,  long,  narrow  features  and  large,  full  eyes 
of  the  colour  that  is  called  grey  because  it  is  no  other. 

1 1 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

She  took  little  interest  in  herself,  and  so  much  in  other 
poiiple  that  it  tended  to  absorb  her  being.  When  the 
childicn  recalled  her  to  their  world,  she  would  return  as 
if  from  another.  They  loved  her  not  as  themselves,  but 
as  the  person  who  served  their  love  of  themselves,  and 
greater  love  has  no  child  than  this.  She  came  of  trades- 
man stock  and  had  no  need  to  earn  her  bread,  but 
consorted  with  anyone  in  the  house  who  shared  her  zest 
for  personal  affairs. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Bennet,"  said  another  voice. 
"Good-morning,  Megan.  Good-morning,  Henry.  Is 
Toby  coming  to  say  good-morning  to-day?" 

"No,"  said  Toby,  in  an  incidental  tone. 

"Good-morning,  ma'am,"  said  Eliza. 

"Good-morning,  Eliza,"  said  the  governess,  with  a  fuller 
enunciation  that  she  had  omitted  the  greeting  before. 

"Have  you  said  good-morning  to  Miss  Ridley?"  said 
Bennet. 

"Enough  people  have  said  it,"  said  Henry,  "and  the 
others  did  not  say  it  to  you." 

Bennet  did  not  comment  on  the  omission,  indeed  had 
not  been  struck  by  it,  and  the  two  boys  who  accompanied 
Miss  Ridley  did  not  seem  aware  of  what  passed. 

"Well,  what  a  beautiful  day!"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

"It  is  the  same  as  any  other  day,"  said  Henry,  raising 
his  eyes  for  his  first  inspection  of  it.  "Though  not  for  the 
hen." 

"A  hen  has  died  and  upset  them,"  said  Bennet,  in  a  low, 
confidential  tone  that  the  children  heard  and  found  com- 
forting.   "It  will  soon  pass  off." 

"Not  for  the  hen,"  said  Henry.  "It  won't  have  any  day 
at  all." 

12 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"We  do  not  quite  know  that,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 
"Opinions  vary  on  the  difference  between  the  animal 
world  and  our  own." 

"Opinions  are  not  much  good  when  no  one  has  the 
same,"  said  Megan.   "They  don't  tell  you  anything." 

"That  again  is  not  quite  true.  Many  people  have  the 
same.  There  are  different  schools  of  thought,  and  people 
belong  to  all  of  them." 

"How  do  they  know  which  to  choose?" 

"That  may  be  beyond  your  range.  It  takes  us  rather 
deep." 

"What  is  the  good  of  knowing  things,  when  you  have  to 
get  older  and  older  and  die  before  you  know  every- 
thing?" 

"You  will  certainly  do  that,  Megan,  and  so  shall  I." 

"Are  animals  of  the  same  nature  as  we  are?"  said 
Henry.   "Monkeys  look  as  if  they  were." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  line  of  the  truth.  A  scientist  called 
Darwin  has  told  us  about  it.  Of  course  we  have  developed 
much  further." 

"Then  weren't  we  made  all  at  once  as  we  are?"  said 
Megan.  "Eliza  says  that  would  mean  the  Bible  was  not 
true." 

"It  has  its  essential  truth,  and  that  is  what  matters." 

"I  suppose  any  untrue  thing  might  have  that.  I  dare- 
say a  good  many  have.  So  there  is  no  such  thing  as  truth. 
It  is  different  in  different  minds." 

"Why,  you  will  be  a  philosopher  one  day,  Megan." 

Miss  Ridley  was  forty-seven  and  looked  exactly  that 
age.  She  wore  neat,  strong  clothes  that  bore  no  affinity 
to  those  in  current  use,  and  wore,  cr  had  set  on  her  head 
an  old,  best  hat  in  place  of  a  modern,  ordinary  one. 

13 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

She  was  fully  gloved  and  booted  for  her  hour  in  the 
garden.  Her  full,  pale  face,  small,  steady  eyes,  non- 
descript features  and  confident  movements  combined  with 
her  clothes  to  make  a  whole  that  conformed  to  nothing 
and  ofTended  no  one.  She  made  no  mistakes  in  her  dress, 
merely  carried  out  her  intentions. 

The  two  boys  who  were  with  her  wore  rather  childish 
clothes  to  conform  with  Henry's.  Fabian  at  thirteen  had 
a  broad  face  and  brow,  broad,  clear  features  and  pure 
grey  eyes  that  recalled  his  sister's.  Guy  was  two  years 
younger  and  unlike  him,  with  a  childish,  pretty  face,  dark 
eyes  that  might  have  recalled  Toby's,  but  for  their  lack  of 
independence  and  purpose,  and  a  habit  of  looking  at  his 
brother  in  trust  and  emulation. 

"Well,  here  are  the  five  of  you  together,"  said  Miss 
Ridley,  who  often  made  statements  that  were  accepted. 
"Are  you  going  to  have  a  game  before  luncheon?  It  is 
twelve  o'clock." 

"That  would  mean  that  we  amused  the  younger  ones," 
said  Fabian. 

"And  is  there  so  much  objection  to  that?" 

"To  me  there  is  too  much." 

Henry  and  Megan  showed  no  interest  in  the  enterprise, 
and  Guy  looked  as  if  he  were  not  averse  from  it.  Toby,  at 
the  mention  of  the  time,  had  turned  and  disappeared 
into  some  bushes  behind  him.  Eliza  went  in  pursuit,  and 
naturally  gained  in  the  contest,  as  she  did  her  best  in  it. 
Toby  glanced  back  to  measure  her  advance,  stumbled 
and  fell  and  lay  outstretched  and  still,  uttering  despairing 
cries.  His  brothers  did  not  look  in  his  direction,  and  his 
sister  did  no  more  than  this.  Bennet  waited  until  he 
emerged  in  Eliza's  arms,  his  lamentations  complicated  by 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

his  further  prospects,  and  reassured  by  what  she  saw> 
entered  into  talk  with  Miss  Ridley. 

"Have  you  seen  anyone  this  morning?"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  at  once  eager  and  casual. 

"Mrs.  Glare  came  in  to  ask  about  the  children.  She 
takes  an  equal  interest  in  them  all.  And  the  tutor  came 
and  went.  Guy  does  not  do  too  well  with  him.  I  think  he 
is  nervous." 

Bennet  turned  eyes  of  concern  on  Guy.  She  had  reared 
the  five  from  the  first  and  saw  the  infant  in  all  of  them. 

"Have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clare  been  together  this 
morning?" 

"Yes,  for  a  time,  but  old  Mr.  Glare  was  with  them." 

"And  that  prevented  trouble?"  said  Fabian. 

"Why,  what  trouble  should  there  be?"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

"There  should  not  be  any,  but  there  would  have  been. 
You  know  what  has  happened." 

"Why,  things  happen  every  day,  Fabian." 

"This  has  not  happened  for  nine  years.  My  own 
mother  has  returned  to  the  place.  You  must  know 
that." 

"Well,  I  believe  I  had  heard  something  about  it." 

"You  are  right  in  your  belief,  as  it  is  likely  you  would 
be.  You  would  hardly  be  the  only  person  not  to  hear." 

"It  is  nothing  for  you  to  think  about,"  said  Bennet,  in 
an  easy  tone  that  was  belied  by  her  eyes. 

"It  is  the  only  thing.  What  would  anyone  think  about 
in  our  place?" 

"You  have  your  mother  here." 

"We  have  our  stepmother." 

"What  is  a  real  mother  like?"  said  Guy. 

"Like  Mater  to  her  own  children,"  said  his  brother. 

15 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"You  know  that  no  dilTercnce  is  made,"  said  Miss 
Ridley. 

"The  diflerence  is  there.  There  is  no  need  to  make 
ii," 

"Are  all  fathers  like  our  father?"  said  Guy. 

"No  father  is  like  him,"  said  Fabian.  "We  have  no 
normal  parent." 

"He  is  devoted  to  you  in  his  way,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

"I  daresay  a  cat  does  the  right  thing  to  a  mouse  in  its 
way. 

"Doing  things  in  your  own  way  is  not  really  doing 
them,"  said  Megan. 

"Why,  Fabian,  what  a  conscious  way  of  talking!"  said 
Miss  Ridley.    "And  it  leads  the  others  to  copy  you." 

"Why  should  I  talk  like  a  child,  when  my  life  prevents 
me  from  being  one?" 

"Would  having  a  real  mother  make  us  more  childish?" 
said  Guy. 

"That  would  hardly  be  desirable  in  your  case,"  said 
Miss  Ridley.  "You  are  inclined  to  be  behind  your  age. 
And  you  could  not  have  a  stepmother  who  was  more  like 
a  real  mother." 

"And  we  could  not  have  one  who  was  like  one,"  said 
Fabian. 

"You  know  that  every  effort  is  made  for  you." 

"Of  course  we  know.  Everyone  is  at  pains  to  tell  us. 
And  we  can  see  it  being  made,  as  they  can." 

"Suppose  it  was  not  made?  That  would  be  the  thing  to 
mind." 

"But  perhaps  not  to  mind  so  much." 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  Henry, 

"Whatever  is  it?"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

i6 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"They  haven't  anything,"  said  Henry,  indicating  his 
brothers.   "Not  even  as  much  as  we  have." 

"Now  really  you  are  ungrateful  children.  You  have  a 
beautiful  home  and  every  care  and  kindness.  It  would  do 
you  good  to  have  to  face  some  real  trouble." 

"You  know  it  would  do  us  harm,"  said  Henry. 

"I  cannot  think  what  has  come  over  you." 

"Then  you  cannot  think  at  all,"  said  Fabian.  "But  I 
daresay  that  is  the  case.  A  good  many  people  can't." 

Guy  and  Megan  laughed. 

"And  you  are  one  of  the  fortunate  ones  who  can?"  said 
Miss  Ridley,  using  a  dry  tone. 

"I  am  one  of  the  unfortunate  ones  who  do.  That  is 
how  I  should  put  it." 

"It  is  perhaps  rather  a  bold  claim." 

"It  is  not  a  claim.   It  is  merely  a  statement  of  fact." 

"If  you  know  things,  of  course  you  think  about  them," 
said  Megan.    "Or  you  wouldn't  really  know  them." 

"You  should  not  say  these  things  before  the  little  ones," 
said  Miss  Ridley  to  Fabian.  "Especially  if  you  are  a  person 
who  thinks.   Or  do  you  not  think  about  them?" 

"Why  should  I?  They  have  enough  people  to  do  it." 

"Henry,  do  get  up  from  that  log,"  said  Bennet,  giving 
matters  a  lighter  tone.   "What  an  uncomfortable  seat!" 

"Not  enough  to  make  you  forget  anything,"  said  Henry, 
as  if  it  had  failed  in  its  purpose. 

"Have  we  had  to  bear  more  than  other  children?"  said 
Guy.   "I  mean  Fabian  and  me." 

"Now  what  have  you  had  to  bear?"  said  Miss  Ridley. 
"Try  to  tell  me  one  thing." 

"He  doesn't  mean  hunger  and  cold  like  children  in 
books,"  said  Henry.    "But  they  are  not  the  only  things." 

n 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Why  are  Sunday  books  sadder  than  others?"  said 
Megan.  "It  seems  to  be  making  it  the  worst  day  on  pur- 
pose.  And  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  best." 

"Now  do  you  not  find  it  so?"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

"Only  because  it  is  a  holiday.  Any  other  day  would  be 
better." 

"It  need  not  be  worse  than  other  days,"  said  Fabian. 
"The  reasons  are  man-made.  Our  religion  is  a  gloomy 
one.   There  are  other  and  happier  creeds." 

"Oh,  hush,  you  know  there  is  the  one  true  one,"  said 
Bennet,  in  an  automatic  manner,  not  moving  her  eyes. 

"It  is  a  pity  it  is  so  sad,"  said  Guy.  "It  has  to  mean  that 
life  is  sad,  when  religion  goes  through  life." 

"Now  surely  you  can  think  of  something  pleasant,"  said 
Miss  Ridley. 

"You  admit  that  religion  is  not  that,"  said  Fabian. 

"Now  I  knew  you  would  take  me  up  on  that,  Fabian. 
I  knew  it  the  moment  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth. 
Of  course  it  has  its  solemn  side.  Its  very  depth  and  mean- 
ing involve  that.  We  should  not  wish  it  otherwise." 

"Well,  people  do  like  gloom.  It  prevents  other  people 
from  being  happy." 

"But  surely  they  do  not  wish  that." 

"They  seem  to  go  through  life  wishing  it.  They  think 
happiness  is  wrong." 

"Or  they  think  it  is  too  pleasant,"  said  Megan,  "and  so 
don't  want  other  people  to  have  it." 

"My  dear  child,  what  reason  can  you  have  for  saying 
such  a  thing?" 

"That  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  have  eyes  and  see  not, 
ears  and  hear  not,  and  seeing  do  not  perceive,"  said 
Megan,  twisting  round  on  one  leg. 

i8 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  conceited  children." 

"Everyone  is  conceited.  It  is  only  that  some  people 
pretend  not  to  be.  People  can't  always  despise  them- 
selves, and  there  might  not  be  any  reason." 

"I  daresay  they  could  generally  find  one,"  said  Fabian. 

"If  they  want  to  prevent  people's  happiness,  they  cer- 
tainly could,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

"Miss  Ridley  is  conceited,"  said  Henry,  in  an  expres- 
sionless tone. 

"What  am  I  conceited  about,  Henry?" 

"About  your  brain  and  your  learning." 

"I  wonder  if  I  am,"  said  Miss  Ridley,  consenting  to 
turn  attention  to  herself.  "I  hardly  think  so,  Henry. 
About  my  brain  I  certainly  am  not.  It  is  of  the  strong  and 
useful  kind,  but  no  more.  In  learning  I  have  gone  further 
than  I  expected." 

Miss  Ridley  had  obtained  a  degree,  a  step  whose 
mystic  significance  for  a  woman  was  accepted  at  that  date 
even  by  those  who  had  taken  it.  It  rendered  her  equal  to 
the  instruction  of  male  youth,  and  accounted  for  her 
presence  in  the  family. 

Eliza  came  towards  them,  calling  out  to  Bennet  tidings 
that  were  worth  announcing  from  afar. 

"He  was  asleep  in  a  minute.  He  was  fractious  because 
he  was  tired." 

"Dear  little  boy!"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

"Is  there  anything  endearing  in  being  asleep?"  said 
Fabian.  "Not  that  it  is  not  better  than  screaming  on  the 
ground." 

"People  are  always  glad  when  babies  go  to  sleep,"  said 
Henry.  "They  can  stop  thinking  about  them.  They  take 
too  much  thought." 

19 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"You  don't  deserve  to  have  a  baby  brother,"  said  Miss 
Ridley. 

"Well,  we  did  not  want  one." 

"I  remember  how  excited  you  were  when  he  came." 

"But  not  when  he  stayed,"  said  Megan,  smiling.  "Not 
when  he  had  always  to  be  there." 

"I  was  never  excited  at  all,"  said  Henry.  "I  knew  he 
would  have  to  stay.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  be  Megan  and  me 
any  longer." 

"I  am  afraid  that  is  a  selfish  point  of  view." 

"All  points  of  view  are  selfish,"  said  Megan.  "They  are 
the  way  people  look  at  things  themselves.  So  they  must 
be." 

"Both  knees  are  grazed,"  said  Eliza  to  Bennet,  as 
though  this  might  have  been  expected. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  Henry. 

"Come,  that  is  not  so  bad,"  said  Miss  Ridley.  "Children 
must  sometimes  fall,  and  he  was  very  brave." 

"Was  he?"  said  Fabian.  "How  would  cowardice  be 
shown?" 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  him,"  said  Henry.  "There  are 
other  things  that  matter.  And  Megan  and  I  don't  always 
think  about  him.    I  had  a  thought  of  my  own." 

"You  ought  to  get  out  of  the  habit  of  saying,  'Oh,  dear, 
oh,  dear!'  " 

"It  isn't  a  habit.  I  don't  say  it  if  there  isn't  a  reason. 
Reasons  can't  be  a  habit.  They  are  there." 

"You  are  proud  of  saying  it,"  said  Guy,  "because  great 
minds  tend  to  melancholy.   I  know  the  book  that  says  it." 

"I  don't  read  the  book;  I  don't  often  read,"  said  Henry. 

"Now  there  is  another  change  we  might  see,"  said  Miss 
Ridley. 

20 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"There  are  real  changes  that  ought  to  be  made,  and 
never  will  be,"  said  Henry,  checking  his  natural  exclama- 
tion. 

"Now  there  is  the  first  effort  made.  I  congratulate  you, 
Henry." 

"I  wasn't  making  an  effort." 

"I  think  you  were.  You  see  I  think  better  of  you  than 
you  think  of  yourself." 

"People  are  always  ashamed  of  trying  to  be  better,"  said 
Megan. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  think  so,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 
"Would  you  be  ashamed  of  it?" 

"I  shall  never  know,  because  I  shall  never  try." 

"I  think  that  shows  you  would  be,"  said  Guy. 

"Now  Henry  may  say,  'Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!'  "  said  Miss 
Ridley.    "I  see  there  is  reason." 

"People  are  ashamed  of  thinking  they  are  not  good 
enough  as  they  are,"  said  Fabian. 

"And  yet  they  would  not  admit  to  a  high  opinion  of 
themselves,"  said  another  voice.  "I  suppose  they  could 
not,  as  it  would  be  so  very  high." 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Clare,"  said  Miss  Ridley.  "Say 
good-morning  to  your  mother,  children." 

The  children  smiled  without  speaking,  according  to  a 
law  which  they  never  broke,  and  of  which  their  mother  was 
not  aware. 

"Why  do  you  play  just  here,  the  one  unpleasant  place? 
Did  not  one  out  of  half-a-dozen  of  you  think  of  that?" 

"Everyone  thought  of  it,"  said  Megan,  "but  Toby 
wanted  to  watch  the  hens." 

"Did  he  leave  directions  that  you  were  all  to  abide  by  his 
choice?" 

21 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

Megan  laughed,  and  her  mother  kissed  her  and  turned 
to  the  boys. 

"How  are  all  my  sons  this  morning  ?  No  one  in  trouble,  I 
hope?"  she  said,  her  eyes  going  to  Henry  and  Guy,  who 
were  disposed  to  this  state. 

"Some  minds  tend  to  it,"  said  Henry,  raising  his  eyes 
to  her  face. 

"Guy  is  pale  this  morning.  Miss  Ridley.  He  does  not 
seem  as  strong  as  the  others." 

"He  is  not,  Mrs.  Clare.  Indeed  he  is  one  by  himself  in 
many  ways." 

"And  Fabian's  clothes  look  different.  The  brothers 
should  be  alike," 

"He  is  reaching  the  stage  of  choice.  And  likeness  to 
younger  brothers  is  not  always  part  of  it." 

"Well,  if  he  knows  his  own  mind,  he  has  a  right  to  follow 
it." 

"You  are  an  indulgent  mother,  Mrs.  Clare." 

"I  never  see  why  children  should  not  please  themselves, 
as  long  as  they  do  nothing  wrong." 

"Would  it  be  wrong  not  to  learn  anything?"  said 
Henry. 

"It  would  be  wrong  of  me  to  let  you  be  unprepared  for 
life." 

"Toby  is  unprepared,  and  people  seem  to  like  him." 

"Dear  little  boy !  I  should  hope  he  is  at  three  years  old." 

"I  ought  not  to  be  so  very  prepared  at  eight." 

"Well,  I  do  not  suppose  you  are,  my  little  son." 

"I  am  more  prepared  than  you  know.  I  am  ready  for 
things  to  happen.  Is  Megan  more  prepared  than  I 
am."^ 

"I  should  not  wonder.    Little  girls  sometimes  are." 

22 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"They  are  all  of  the  independent  type,"  said  Miss 
Ridley.   "Guy  is  again  the  exception." 

"Fabian  and  Megan  remind  me  of  each  other.  They  are 
a  true  brother  and  sister." 

"They  are  really  only  half  one,"  said  Henry. 

"You  surely  do  not  feel  that?" 

"No,  I  just  know  it,"  said  Henry,  as  he  followed  the 
others. 

Flavia  Clare  looked  after  the  group  of  children.  She 
was  a  tall,  thin  woman  of  forty,  with  a  wide,  full  head,  a 
firm,  curved  mouth,  honest  hazel  eyes  that  seemed  to 
know  their  own  honesty,  and  hair  and  clothes  as  un- 
adorned and  unadorning  as  custom  permitted.  An  air 
about  her  of  being  a  personality  suggested  that  she  was 
aware  of  this,  and  was  careful  to  give  it  no  thought. 

"It  is  hard  to  be  impartial  to  them  all.  Miss  Ridley. 
I  wonder  how  far  I  succeed." 

"I  should  say  to  an  unusual  degree,  Mrs.  Clare.  I 
always  feel  inclined  to  congratulate  you." 

"And  I  gave  you  the  opportunity.  What  do  you  think, 
Miss  Bennet?   I  am  giving  it  to  you  as  well." 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes,"  said  Bennet,  recalling  her  eyes  and  her 
thoughts.  "People  say  they  might  all  be  your  own 
children." 

"And  you  would  not  say  it?  I  have  tried  to  make  them 
so. 

"You  could  not  do  any  more,"  said  Bennet,  in  a  tone  of 
honest  sympathy. 

"And  there  is  so  much  more  to  be  done.  I  did  not  know 
how  much  it  would  be,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  fail.  But  I 
suppose  some  failure  must  be  accounted  human  success. 
We  must  be  content  with  our  human  place." 

23 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

A  bell  rang  in  the  house,  and  Miss  Ridley  turned  and 
went  towards  it  with  a  running  gait,  that  seemed  to  in- 
commode her  without  adding  to  her  speed.  Bennet 
followed  without  sign  of  haste,  and  they  reached  the  house 
together.  The  children  went  severally  to  the  nursery  and 
the  schoolroom,  in  accordance  with  the  convention  that 
allotted  the  most  stairs  to  the  shortest  legs,  or  to  those 
that  had  to  be  spared  them. 

Bennet  sat  at  the  head  of  her  table,  with  Henry  and 
Megan  at  the  sides.  Eliza's  place  was  at  the  bottom, 
with  Toby's  high  chair  at  her  hand,  so  that  she  could 
divide  her  attention  between  her  own  meals  and  his. 
As  she  carried  him  from  his  bed  to  the  chair,  he  ex- 
hibited signs  of  revulsion  and  turned  his  face  over  her 
shoulder. 

*'Oh,  your  own  nice  chair!" 

"No,"  said  Toby. 

"We  don't  want  anyone  else  to  sit  in  it." 

Toby  cast  eyes  of  suspicion  on  Henry  and  Megan,  and 
Eliza  took  advantage  of  the  moment  to  insert  him  into 
the  chair.  He  bowed  to  fate  to  the  extent  of  merely 
uttering  fretting  sounds. 

"Now  look  at  the  nice  dinner,"  said  Eliza. 

Toby  gave  it  a  glance  of  careless  appraisement  and 
settled  to  a  game  with  his  bib  and  mug,  that  involved  a 
crooning  song.  When  a  spoon  approached  his  lips  he  shut 
them  tight. 

"Now  what  about  feeding  yourself?"  said  Eliza,  in  a 
zestful  manner. 

Toby  took  the  spoon,  misled  by  the  tone,  but  was 
repelled  by  the  routine  and  cast  the  spoon  on  the  ground. 
Eliza  took  another  without  a  change  of  expression  and 

24 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

proceeded  to  feed  him,  and  he  presently  leaned  over  the 
chair. 

"Poor  spoon!"  he  said. 

*'Yes,  poor  spoon!  You  have  thrown  it  on  the  floor.  It 
is  all  by  itself  down  there." 

"Oh,  yes.  All  by  itself.  Toby  not  throw  it.  Eliza  did." 

"No,  no,  you  know  quite  well  you  threw  it  yourself. 
Now  eat  your  dinner  or  you  won't  be  a  good  boy,"  said 
Eliza,  accepting  Toby's  moral  range. 

A  look  of  consternation  came  into  the  latter's  eyes,  and 
he  ate  industriously. 

"Very  good  boy,"  he  said,  appealing  to  Bennet. 

"Yes,  if  you  eat  your  dinner." 

Toby  returned  to  his  plate,  but  misliking  the  scraps  left 
upon  it,  took  it  in  both  hands  and  threw  it  after  the  spoon. 
It  broke  and  he  fell  into  mirth. 

"Dear,  dear,  what  a  naughty  thing  to  do!"  said  Eliza. 

Toby  was  lost  in  his  emotion. 

Henry  and  Megan  picked  up  the  pieces  and  broke 
them,  to  divert  him  further.  The  method  succeeded  too 
well,  and  he  showed  signs  of  hysteria  and  exhaustion. 

"No,  no,  go  back  to  your  seats,"  said  Bennet.  "He  will 
be  upset." 

Henry  threw  down  the  last  fragment,  and  Toby's  mirth 
brought  a  look  of  perplexity  to  his  own  face  as  to  its 
pleasurable  nature. 

"Now  look  at  the  plate  all  in  pieces,"  said  Eliza.  "It 
was  unkind  of  Toby." 

"It  likes  it,"  said  the  latter  after  a  moment's  inspection. 
"Only  one  plate.   Now  three,  five,  sixteen." 

"No,  it  does  not  like  it.  How  would  Toby  like  to  be 
broken?" 

25 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

••Toby  little  boy." 

"Will  he  eat  that  pudding?"  said  Bennet.  "It  will  be 
safer  not  to  try." 

"After  all  that,"  said  Eliza. 

Toby  looked  up  in  a  frowning  manner,  and  after  a 
minute  of  watching  the  pudding  disappear,  made  signs  of 
peremptory  demand.  He  was  given  a  portion  and  ate  it 
without  help,  scraping  his  plate  and  setting  down  his 
spoon  with  precision.   Then  he  gave  a  reminiscent  giggle. 

"Another  plate." 

"You  have  one  in  front  of  you,"  said  Henry. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Toby. 

"You  are  a  good  boy  not  to  throw  it,"  said  Eliza. 

"Not  throw  it.    Oh,  no.    Poor  plate." 

"You  are  too  big  to  be  so  naughty,"  said  Bennet  to 
Henry.   "Toby  sets  you  an  example." 

"You  always  tell  us  to  amuse  him,"  said  Megan,  "and 
nothing  has  ever  amused  him  so  much." 

"Amuse  him,"  said  Toby.   "Toby  laugh,  didn't  he?" 

"Why  did  he  think  it  was  so  funny?"  said  Megan. 

Toby  looked  up  as  if  interested  in  the  response. 

"He  has  a  sense  of  humour  like  a  savage,"  said  Henry. 

"No,"  said  his  brother. 

"Savages  laugh  when  the  others'  heads  are  blown  off, 
even  when  their  own  are  just  going  to  be.  Their  minds  are 
like  Toby's." 

"Or  like  yours,  when  you  told  him  about  the  plate," 
said  Eliza,  with  simply  disparaging  intent. 

"Henry,"  said  Toby,  in  agreement  with  this  criticism. 
"Dear  Toby!" 

"Now  you  must  be  ready  to  go  downstairs,"  said 
Bennet,  rising  and  laying  hands  on  Megan. 

26 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Can't  we  send  down  word  that  I  am  not  very  well?" 

Bennet  continued  her  ministrations  without  reply. 

"Dear  Toby!"  said  the  latter,  leaning  towards  Bennet  in 
insistence  on  this  point  of  view. 

*'Yes,  yes,  dear  Toby!" 

Toby  relapsed  into  his  own  pursuits,  and  wrapping  his 
bib  round  his  mug,  rocked  it  to  and  fro. 

"The  mug  would  break,  if  you  threw  it  down,"  said 
Henry. 

Toby  raised  a  warning  finger  and  hushed  the  mug  in  his 
arms. 


27 


CHAPTER    II 

Another  meal!"  said  Cassius  Clare,  coming  to  the 
luncheon  table.  "The  same  faces,  the  same  voices,  the 
same  things  said.   I  daresay  the  same  food." 

"You  should  provide  another  voice  and  face,"  said  his 
father.  "You  set  the  example  of  always  bringing  your 
own." 

"I  wonder  if  we  could  dispense  with  meals,"  said 
Cassius,  using  a  sincere  tone. 

"And  what  is  your  conclusion?" 

"We  might  perhaps  dispense  with  luncheon.  The 
children  have  it  upstairs,  and  older  people  do  not  need 
so  much  to  eat." 

"Any  arrangement  you  wish  could  be  made  in  your 
case." 

"Perhaps  you  are  too  old  to  go  so  long  without  food." 

"I  could  have  a  tray  in  my  room.  That  would  be  in 
accordance  with  my  age." 

"And  then  there  would  only  be  your  own  face,"  said 
Flavia,  "and  I  suppose  no  voice." 

''And  Flavia  might  say  she  wanted  something  to  eat  in 
the  middle  of  the  day,"  said  Cassius. 

"It  is  true  that  I  might,"  said  his  wife. 

"So  it  only  leaves  me  to  dispense  with  the  meal.  And 
that  would  not  make  much  difference." 

"It  would  to  yourself,"  said  old  Mr.  Clare.  "Have  you 
thought  of  the  difference  it  would  make?" 

28 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"It  may  not  be  worth  while  to  make  the  change  for  one 
person." 

"It  is  for  you  to  decide,"  said  Flavia.    "It  involves  no 
one  else." 

"So  you  have  upset  your  scheme,  my  boy,"  said  Mr. 
Clare. 

Cassias   began   to   carve   the   meat,   breathing  rather 
deeply. 

"Will  you  have  any  of  this?"  he  said  to  his  wife. 

"I  will  have  what  I  usually  do." 

"A  good  deal,  isn't  it?"  said  Cassius,  seeming  to  operate 
with  some  effort. 

"I  should  think  an  average  amount." 

"This  is  not  a  meal  we  were  to  dispense  with,"  said  Mr. 
Clare. 

"I  think  most  women  eat  less,"  said  Cassius,  looking  at 
the  plate  as  it  left  him. 

"Well,  this  is  what  I  will  eat,"  said  his  wife. 

"I  wonder  what  we  are  quarrelling  about." 

"You  can  hardly  do  that,  my  boy,  as  you  have  arranged 
it,"  said  Mr,  Clare. 

"Do  you  think  that  bookcase  would  look  better  further 
to  the  left?"  said  Cassius,  with  his  head  to  one  side. 

"Not  to  me,  when  I  have  seen  it  where  it  is  for  so  long. 
It  would  look  in  the  wrong  place.  And  I  should  think  it 
would  to  you,  as  you  have  seen  it  there  for  even  longer." 

Cassius  regarded  it  in  independent  consideration. 

"Did  you  say  you  had  seen  the  children  this  morning?" 
he  said  to  his  wife,  as  though  realising  no  more  than  this 
about  her  utterance. 

"I  did  not  say  so,  as  you  know.  But  I  have  seen  them  or 
seen  four  of  them,"  said  Flavia,  her  voice  changing  as  she 

29 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

spokr.    "And  a  picture  they  made,  alike  and  dilFcrent,  and 
individual  and  the  same.   Toby  was  still  asleep." 

"Did  Miss  Ridley  add  to  the  picture?" 

"She  looked  herself,  as  she  does.  Yes,  she  added  some- 
thing of  her  own.   I  hope  the  post  is  what  she  needs." 

"I  hope  she  is  the  person  to  fill  it.  That  should  be  our 
concern." 

"It  was  naturally  our  chief  one.  It  should  not  exclude 
the  other.   I  am  afraid  it  tends  to  do  so." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Clare.  "I  would  not  say  I 
was  afraid." 

Cassius  looked  at  his  companions'  plates,  and  took  a 
shred  of  meat  himself,  as  if  to  fill  the  time.  In  a  moment 
he  gave  a  sigh  and  fully  supplied  his  plate,  as  though 
conformity  were  unavoidable.  As  he  did  so,  he  happened 
to  meet  his  wife's  eyes. 

"Having  my  luncheon  after  all!"  he  said,  as  if  quoting 
her  thought. 

"A  good  many  people  are  doing  that." 

"But  they  did  not  say  they  would  not  have  any,"  said 
Cassius,  still  in  the  quoting  tone. 

"I  daresay  they  did.    It  is  a  thing  people  do." 

"So  I  am  just  like  anyone  else?" 

"No,  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  it,  my  boy,"  said  Mr. 
Clare. 

"Like  a  good  many  people  in  that,"  said  Flavia. 

"And  you  are  different?"  said  Cassius. 

"I  may  be  in  the  minority.  The  matter  is  a  small  one." 

"How  many  of  us  think  that  about  ourselves?" 

"All  of  us,"  said  his  father.  "And  not  only  on  that 
ground." 

"On  more  important  ones?" 

30 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,  yes,  on  those,  my  boy." 

"I  hardly  think  we  are  all  so  much  alike,"  said  Flavia. 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Gassius.  "I  often  wonder  if  I 
belong  to  the  same  species  as  other  people." 

"And  what  conclusion  do  you  come  to?"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"To  my  own  conclusion.  I  daresay  you  often  wonder  it 
about  yourself." 

"No,  I  know  I  belong  to  the  same,  I  have  had  long 
enough  to  learn  it." 

"Do  we  mean  the  same  thing,  or  not?" 

"The  same,"  said  Flavia,  smiling.  "Everyone  always 
means  it." 

"Now  there  is  something  I  have  been  wanting  to  say," 
said  Cassius,  replenishing  his  plate,  as  if  his  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.  "Fabian  is  getting  too  old  to  be  with  women 
and  children," 

"He  will  go  to  a  public  school  in  a  year.  A  home  life  is 
best  for  boys  in  childhood.  It  is  what  I  shall  do  for 
Henry,  and  so  what  I  do  for  his  brothers." 

"I  suppose  Guy  is  your  favourite  of  your  stepchildren?" 

"I  have  no  stepchildren.  I  have  four  sons  and  a 
daughter.    I  can  see  it  in  no  other  way." 

"I  wonder  if  they  can,"  said  Gassius. 

"If  so,  the  blame  is  mine." 

"Their  opinion  of  you  would  hardly  be  the  same  as 
your  opinion  of  yourself." 

"Then  perhaps  the  blame  is  theirs,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 
"Ghildren  are  not  always  blameless." 

"I  wonder  if  they  ought  to  see  their  own  mother,"  said 
Gassius,  keeping  his  tone  even.  "You  know  she  has 
returned  to  the  place?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  his  wife. 

31 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  am  not  a  man  who  cannot  change  his  mind." 

"It  seems  that  you  arc  not." 

*'The  best  way  to  deal  with  a  mistake  is  to  rectify  it." 

"If  a  mistake  has  been  made." 

"It  is  never  too  late  to  mend." 

"A  poor  saying,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 

"Not  to  mend  ourselves,"  said  Flavia.  "To  mend  what 
we  have  done,  it  is  often  too  late.   I  think  it  generally  is." 

"Do  you  feel  with  me  that  we  took  a  wrong  course?" 
said  Cassius. 

"No,  I  think  we  did  the  best  thing.  I  do  not  say  there 
was  any  good  thing." 

"No  mistake  was  made  at  the  time,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 
"None  could  have  been  made." 

"A  man's  feelings  may  change,"  said  his  son,  not 
looking  at  anyone. 

"You  need  not  tell  us,  my  boy.  You  give  us  the  proof." 

"They  have  a  way  of  returning,"  said  Flavia,  "with 
the  return  of  the  things  that  caused  them.  Just  as  they 
pass  with  their  passing." 

"You  think  you  are  very  wise  and  deep,"  said  her 
husband. 

"Well,  it  sounded  as  if  she  was,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 

"And  the  words  suggested  it  to  Gassius,"  said  Flavia, 
"and  he  is  not  prone  to  such  opinion." 

"One  woman  and  two  men!"  said  Gassius,  as  if  to 
himself.   "I  suppose  this  is  what  it  must  be." 

"And  would  a  second  woman  mend  matters?"  said  his 
wife.  "Well,  perhaps  she  might.  She  might  be  the  right 
person  in  the  right  place,  doing  the  thing  she  could  do." 

"My  dear,  good  wife!"  said  Gassius,  in  another  and 
louder  tone.  "My  helpmeet  in  the  troubles  of  life!   Howl 

32 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

depend  on  you  in  my  mind,  if  I  have  my  own  ways  of 
showing  it!   I  know  you  understand  me." 

"Well,  that  is  fortunate,"  said  his  father.  "It  might 
not  be  so." 

"I  want  your  advice,  Flavia.  I  ask  for  it,  my  dear. 
Would  you  advise  me  to  approach  my  first  wife?  Your 
opinion  will  be  mine." 

"I  hardly  know  what  my  opinion  is.  I  have  not 
thought.  I  should  not  think.  It  has  no  bearing  on  the 
matter." 

"Ah,  I  have  never  met  a  little  woman  with  such  an 
opinion  of  herself.  Or  one  with  a  better  right  to  it.  But 
why  not  help  a  simple  man  in  his  own  way?  Unless  you 
are  afraid  of  what  is  in  your  mind.  I  daresay  we  all  are 
really." 

"Oh,  well,  afraid  of  that.  But  we  should  not  betray  it. 
We  always  take  great  care." 

"To  involve  other  people  and  protect  ourselves?" 

"Well,  think  what  care  that  would  need." 

"The  thing  to  do  is  to  keep  it  in  our  minds  and  to 
continue  to  be  afraid  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 

"Well,  what  else  could  we  do?"  said  his  daughter-in- 
law.  "There  is  no  danger  that  we  shall  accustom  our- 
selves to  it.  It  is  not  true  that  wc  get  used  to  any- 
thing." 

"You  both  talk  as  if  you  had  dark  thoughts  on  a  heroic 
scale,"  said  Gassius,  as  if  this  were  a  too  ambitious  claim. 

"Just  on  the  ordinary  scale,"  said  his  wife. 

"Now  here  is  a  letter  come  by  hand,"  said  Gassius. 
"And  I  declare  the  one  I  dreaded !  I  might  have  known  it. 
I  expect  I  did  know  in  my  mind,  and  that  is  what  put  me 
into  such  a  state.  Well,  what  a  thing  to  confront  a  man  in 

33 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

the  fust  half  of  the  day,  and  cast  a  cloud  over  the  rest  of 
it!" 

"Letters  usually  come  at  breakfast,"  said  his  father. 
"And  then  the  effect  might  be  on  the  whole  day." 

"And  that  is  helpful,  is  it?  And  common  is  the  common- 
place, and  empty  chaff  well  meant  for  grain.  That  things 
are  common  would  not  make  my  own  less  bitter.  Never 
morning  wore  to  evening  but  something  of  the  kind  took 
place." 

"It  does  sound  rather  like  the  whole  day,"  said  Flavia. 

"Yes,  you  can  be  clever  about  it.  How  does  that  affect 
the  position?" 

"I  think  it  improves  it  a  little.  What  does  the  letter 
say?" 

"Read  it  to  us,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"Oh,  yes,  and  have  you  and  Flavia  throwing  your  wit 
over  it,  and  treating  me  as  if  I  were  a  culprit,  instead  of  a 
man  expected  to  be  married  to  two  wives  at  once,  and  to 
offer  up  one  of  them  to  the  mockery  of  the  other.  What  a 
demand  to  be  made  on  a  man !  I  could  not  have  believed 
it." 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  his  wife. 

"Come,  you  can  be  explicit,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"I  am  putting  it  as  plainly  as  I  can.  Surely  two  wives  is 
explicit  enough  for  anyone.  Or  would  you  want  it  to  be 
ten?  Would  that  be  more  explicit?" 

"No,  it  would  be  less,"  said  Flavia.  "It  would  need  a 
good  deal  more  explanation." 

"Well,  have  the  truth,"  said  her  husband.  "Have  it 
and  make  what  you  can  of  it.  Here  am  I  told  by  my  first 
wife  that  she  is  coming  to  encounter  my  second,  and  to 
break  up  our  family  life,  and  take  our  children  away 

34 


I 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

from  us,  and  be  a  heroine  and  a  martyr  through  it  all! 
Though  she  does  not  want  to  see  me.  Oh,  no,  there  is  no 
mention  of  that.  Though  what  harm  it  would  do  her  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  say.  She  did  it  day  and  night  for  five  years." 

"And  felt  she  could  do  it  no  longer,"  said  Flavia,  in  an 
expressionless  tone. 

"And  I  felt  the  same,  I  can  tell  you,  and  felt  it  no  less. 
To  have  those  eyes  boring  straight  into  mine,  as  if  they 
would  read  my  very  soul,  and  probably  find  I  hadn't  one 
into  the  bargain!  It  was  as  much  as  flesh  and  blood  could 
stand.   I  had  come  to  an  end  as  much  as  she  had." 

"Is  she  returning  to  the  place  for  good?"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"Coming  back  to  her  home,  as  she  puts  it,"  said  Cassius, 
referring  to  the  letter.  "As  if  this  house  had  not  been  her 
home  for  years !  There  is  no  need  to  be  invidious,  is  there? 
Coming  back  to  that  brother  and  sister,  and  to  that  house 
with  books  all  over  it,  and  little  else  that  I  could  ever  see. 
Well,  if  she  prefers  it  to  this,  I  wish  her  joy  of  it." 

"She  hardly  has  the  choice  of  the  two,"  said  his  father. 
"And  she  has  come  with  a  purpose  and  told  you  of  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  wants  something  for  herself.  There  is  no 
need  to  say  that." 

"I  should  not  have  thought  it  need  be  said  of  her,  from 
what  I  have  heard,"  said  Flavia. 

"Yes,  be  magnanimous  about  her.  We  know  your  view 
of  yourself." 

"It  is  the  way  to  make  it  everyone's  view  of  her,"  said 
Mr.  Clare.    "And  there  is  no  harm  in  her  taking  it." 

"Yes,  I  am  the  one  who  is  criticised  and  condemned, 
and  seen  as  a  common  creature  blundering  between  two 
highminded  women,  and  inflicting  myself  on  both.  That 
is  my  position.    I  must  put  up  with  it." 

35 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"What  is  it  that  your  first  wife  wants  for  herself?"  said 
Flavia. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  said  she  would  not  want  anything." 

"But  you  did  not  take  that  view." 

"And  I  do  not  take  it,"  said  Cassius.  "She  seems  to 
me  to  want  all  she  can  get,  as  in  her  way  she  always  did. 
She  and  I  parted  by  mutual  consent,  but  no  one  was  to 
know  that  but  ourselves.  Oh,  no,  she  was  the  martyr 
and  I  the  culprit,  and  the  world  had  to  see  it  like  that. 
And  now  she  thinks  she  can  call  the  tune,  as  if  it  were  the 
truth.    It  is  a  thing  that  makes  my  blood  boil." 

Cassius  was  a  broad,  solid  man  about  fifty,  with  a  broad, 
fair  face,  small,  light  eyes,  thick,  uncertain  hands,  and 
flat,  not  uncomely  features,  that  responded  to  his  emo- 
tions. His  father,  who  was  like  him,  had  a  stronger  growth 
of  bone,  that  raised  and  strengthened  his  features  to  the 
point  of  handsomeness.  Flavia  looked  a  creature  of 
another  blood  between  them.  She  seemed  to  watch  her 
husband,  while  her  father-in-law  simply  accepted  him.  Mr. 
Clare  saw  his  son  as  he  was,  and  kept  his  feeling  for  him, 
and  Flavia  seemed  to  fear  to  do  the  one,  in  case  she 
should  cease  to  do  the  other. 

Cassius  was  the  master  of  the  place,  which  he  had  in- 
herited from  a  godfather,  and  Mr.  Clare  on  the  death  of 
his  wife  had  joined  his  fortunes  with  his  son's. 

"Read  the  letter  to  us,  my  boy.  Then  we  shall  know  our 
ground." 

"  'Dear  Cassius,'  "  read  his  son,  in  a  voice  that  chal- 
lenged them  to  form  their  own  opinion,  "  'I  am  breaking 
my  word.  I  have  not  strength  to  keep  it.  I  cannot  be 
parted  longer  from  my  sons.  It  is  not  in  me  to  suffer  it. 
I  am  coming  back  to  my  home.    I  must  be  within  daily 

36 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

distance  of  them.  Indeed  I  have  come  back.  I  ask  you  to 
allow  me  access  to  them.  If  you  will  not,  I  shall  still  seek 
it.  I  do  not  ask  for  forgiveness.  I  see  there  can  and  could 
be  none.  I  do  not  ask  for  what  is  beyond  people's  power. 
I  am  the  last  person  who  should  do  that.  Catherine 
Clare.' 

"There  is  a  letter  for  you.  What  do  you  think  of  that 
as  a  threat  to  our  lives?  Catherine  sneaking  in  and  out  of 
our  home,  and  none  of  us  knowing  whether  to  accept  her 
or  not!  And  an  atmosphere  of  discomfort  and  uncertainty 
over  everything." 

"She  would  hardly  do  that,"  said  Flavia.  "I  know  her 
only  by  hearsay,  but  enough  to  know  that." 

"Yes,  stand  up  for  her.  Put  yourself  in  her  place.  I 
might  have  foreseen  this.  Two  women  against  one  man, 
when  two  men  against  one  woman  would  be  the  better 
match!  And  two  mothers  for  those  boys!  What  a  state 
of  things!" 

"I  hope  both  mothers  will  be  real  ones.  And  I  see  no 
reason  why  they  should  not." 

"Well,  I  do.  From  what  I  know  of  you  both  I  see  no 
hope  of  it.  Oh,  I  am  not  a  stranger  to  either  of  you.  And 
I  don't  see  you  working  together,  and  there  is  the  truth." 

"There  should  not  be  any  problem,  if  there  is  goodwill 
on  both  sides.  And  there  is  no  reason  against  it." 

"No  reason?  Well,  you  are  a  simpler  woman  than  I 
thought  you.  So  you  can  honestly  say  that.  Well,  I 
believe  you  are  simpler.  I  believe  you  put  a  veneer  on 
yourself  and  deceive  us  all.  I  believe  people  often  do 
that." 

"It  is  an  example  that  might  be  followed,"  said  Mr. 
Clare. 

37 


THE     PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Your  willingness  to  let  her  see  the  boys  puts  the  matter 
on  its  foundation,"  said  Flavia. 

"My  willingness?  Who  said  I  was  willing?  I  tell  you  I 
am  not.  I  don't  want  to  have  her  in  my  home,  looking  as 
if  she  would  penetrate  into  the  heart  of  things,  and  as  if 
she  were  too  sensitive  to  look  at  them  when  she  had  done 
so.  Oh,  she  has  her  own  view  of  herself.  Just  as  you  have, 
for  the  matter  of  that.  Women  think  much  more  of 
themselves  than  men." 

"Well,  that  does  no  harm,"  said  Mr.  Clare,  "if  it  leads 
them  to  live  up  to  it." 

"Well,  it  casts  an  atmosphere  of  falseness  and  conscious- 
ness over  everything,"  said  Cassius,  in  an  easier  tone. 
"And  now  I  suppose  I  am  to  answer  this  letter.  And  say 
— well,  say  what  I  can.  Just  to  accept  what  she  says  would 
make  me  cut  a  poor  figure.  Or  is  that  what  I  am  to  do? 
Can't  either  of  you  utter  a  word,  or  have  a  thought,  or 
give  me  any  kind  of  help?  W^hat  is  the  good  of  feminine 
insight  and  the  experience  of  seventy  years,  if  they  can't 
be  turned  to  account?" 

"You  have  only  to  wTite  what  is  in  your  mind,"  said 
his  wife. 

"I  have  told  you  what  that  is.  So  I  am  to  write  that, 
am  I?  Well,  I  will  do  so  and  let  you  see  the  result,"  said 
Cassius,  rising  with  an  air  of  reckless  purpose. 

"Why  be  in  such  a  hurry,  my  boy?"  said  his  father. 
"It  is  not  a  case  for  eagerness." 

"Eagerness?  No,  it  is  not.  So  I  will  do  nothing  and  see 
what  comes  of  that.  Though  I  have  not  much  hope  that 
the  matter  will  rest  there.  I  know  the  woman  I  am  dealing 
with." 

Cassius  took  a  deep  breath  as  his  wife  and  his  father 

38 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

left  him,  and  then  squared  his  shoulders  and  addressed 
the  butler,  who  had  been  waiting  on  them,  or  ostensibly 
doing  so. 

"Well,  Ainger,  have  you  gained  an  idea  of  my  position?" 

"I  have  caught  a  word  here  and  there,  sir,"  said  Ainger, 
looking  up  in  an  incidental  manner. 

"You  remember  your  former  mistress?" 

"Five  years  of  my  life  were  spent  under  her  sway,  sir. 
It  can  hardly  have  escaped  me." 

"She  is  returning  to  my  life  after  nine  years,  or  that  is 
the  suggestion." 

"I  did  not  gather  your  decision,  sir,"  said  Ainger,  con- 
tracting his  brows  as  in  an  effort  of  recollection. 

"I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter.  It  is  out  of  my 
control." 

"It  seems  that  a  mother's  feelings  command  respect, 
sir." 

"So  you  heard  the  whole  thing.    I  thought  you  did." 

"It  recurs  to  me,  sir,  as  an  undercurrent  to  my  work,  as  I 
cast  my  mind  over  it." 

Alfred  Ainger  was  a  tall,  active  man  of  forty,  with  a 
round,  yellow  head,  a  full,  high-coloured  face,  very  blue, 
bunched-up  eyes,  an  unshapely  nose  and  a  red-lipped, 
elaborate  mouth  that  opened  and  shut  with  a  vigorous 
movement.  His  bearing  carried  an  equal  respect  for  his 
master  and  confidence  in  himself 

"Well,  you  may  soon  be  opening  the  door  to  your 
former  mistress." 

"I  shall  know  what  is  required  of  me,  sir." 

"I  hope  I  may  say  the  same,  Ainger.  I  hope  I  shall  be 
able  to  support  one  wife  and  receive  the  other,  and  do  a 
man's  part  by  both." 

39 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"The  young  gentlemen  should  be  a  help  to  you,  sir." 
"Yes,  it  is  they  whom  she  is  coming  to  see.    I  do  not 

flatter  myself  it  is  anyone  else.    I  do  not  wish  to  do  so. 

But  I  shall  have  to  meet  the  several  claims  and  forget  my 

own.    1  hope  I  shall  be  equal  to  it." 


40 


CHAPTER   III 

Bennet  set  Toby  down  at  the  dining-room  door  and 
constrained  her  charges  to  enter.  They  advanced  and 
stood  about  the  table,  as  seats  for  them  were  not  suppHed. 
Toby  went  on  to  the  window-seat,  disposed  some  play- 
things upon  it  and  entered  into  communication  with  them. 

'Ts  my  baby  coming  to  his  mother?"  said  Flavia.    "I 
have  not  seen  him  to-day." 

Toby  said  nothing  except  to  his  possessions. 

"Gome  and  have  a  word  with  your  grandfather,"  said 
Mr.  Glare. 

Toby  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  ran  towards  him 
and  displayed  his  knees. 

"You  have  grazed  the  pair  of  them.    So  you  had  a 
fall." 

"Henry  push  him,"  said  Toby,  in  a  tone  of  suggestion. 

"No,  he  did  not,"  said  Megan.   "Toby  fell  when  Eliza 
ran  after  him  to  take  him  to  bed." 

"Run  fast,"  said  her  brother.   "Toby  too." 

"We  should  say  what  is  true,"  said  Flavia,  stroking  his 
head. 

"A  plate,"  said  Toby,  with  a  giggle,  looking  round  the 
table. 

"A  plate  was  broken  and  made  him  laugh,"  said  Henry. 
"He  can  still  be  happy  easily." 

"Oh,  dear!  Who  broke  it?"  said  Flavia. 

"Eliza  did,"  said  Toby,  soberly. 

41 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"i\o,  he  broke  it  himself,"  said  Megan,  "He  threw  it 
on  the  ground." 

"You  must  know  that  you  broke  it,"  said  Flavia  to 
Toby.   "And  poor  EHza,  who  is  always  so  kind!" 

"Oh,  yes.   Very  kind.   Not  mean  to  run  too  fast." 

"Suppose  she  said  what  was  not  true  about  you?" 

"No,"  said  Toby,  on  a  note  of  protest. 

"Did  you  not  know  when  you  broke  the  plate?" 

"Very  good  boy,"  said  Toby,  in  a  tone  of  taking 
precaution  before  admission. 

"Yes,  if  you  say  what  is  true.  Say  you  broke  the  plate 
yourself." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Toby  solemnly.  "Throw  it  down.  Poor 
plate!" 

He  returned  to  the  window  and  resumed  his  monologue. 

"Does  he  often  say  what  is  not  true?"  said  Cassius. 

"He  doesn't  know  that  words  are  connected  with 
truth,"  said  Fabian.  "He  is  confused  by  having  stories 
told  him." 

"Nothing  must  be  told  him  but  actual  facts.  I  have 
wondered  if  tales  should  be  told  to  young  children.  And 
here  is  the  answer." 

"It  would  not  be  natural,"  said  his  son.  "And  it  would 
not  make  any  difference.  The  infant  mind  invents  stories. 
All  infancy  is  the  same.  In  the  infancy  of  the  race  tales 
were  invented." 

"Have  we  been  wrong  in  deciding  on  a  home  educa- 
tion?" said  Flavia,  smiling  at  her  husband. 

Cassius  made  no  reply. 

"Toby  doesn't  know  that  things  as  they  are,  are  all 
there  is,"  said  Henry.  "He  can  still  believe  anything  and 
be  happy." 

42 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  your  knowledge  of  life  is  too  much  for  you?"  said 
his  father. 

"It  must  get  more  and  more.  How  can  it  be 
helped?" 

"You  were  the  hero  of  one  of  Toby's  inventions,"  said 
Mr.  Clare.   "Does  fiction  owe  anything  to  fact?" 

Henry  did  not  reply. 

"Answer  your  grandfather,"  said  Cassius. 

Henry  was  silent. 

"Flavia,  will  you  support  me?" 

"No,  all  the  children  are  good  to  Toby.  Henry  knows 
it  goes  without  saying." 

"I  admit  I  had  not  studied  them,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"Well,  you  have  been  told  now,"  said  Henry. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  found  your  tongue,"  said  his 
father,  as  if  he  had  carried  his  point. 

"Toby  knows  what  is  possible,"  said  Guy.  "That  is 
why  his  stories  might  be  true.  He  has  got  to  know  much 
more  in  the  last  months." 

"My  observant  son!"  said  Flavia. 

"That  is  true  of  all  children,"  said  Cassius. 

"I  meant  more  than  that,"  said  Guy.  "He  keeps  seem- 
ing to  be  a  different  person." 

"You  might  emulate  him,"  said  his  father. 

"Guy  is  too  old  to  change  like  that,"  said  Fabian. 

"He  is  perhaps  too  old  not  to  have  changed." 

"There  is  no  rule  in  these  things,"  said  Flavia.  "They 
will  all  come  into  their  own." 

"I  think  the  elder  ones  are  the  higher  type,"  said 
Cassius,  in  an  even  tone.  "Especially  if  Guy's  backward- 
ness is  a  passing  phase." 

"Well,  their  mother  is  a  gifted  woman.    I  have  heard 

43 


THE    PRESKNT    AND    THE    PAST 

many  people  say  so.    It  is  natural  that  her  children  should 
take  after  her." 

"Has  she  more  gifts  than  you  have?"  said  Henry. 

"Yes,  I  think  she  probably  has," 

"Do  children  inherit  only  from  mothers?" 

"No,  from  both  their  parents." 

"Then  Father  might  have  some  gifts  for  us  to  inherit." 

"He  hardly  seem  to  think  you  have  inherited  any." 

"Sometimes  stocks  do  not  mix,"  said  Cassius,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  boot  and  giving  it  a  pull.  "A  union  may 
not  result  in  the  best  in  either." 

"It  seems  a  pity,"  said  Megan,  "that  when  two  women 
agreed  to  marry  Father,  he  did  not  like  being  married  to 
either  of  them." 

"He  liked  being  married  to  both  of  them  at  first,"  said 
Flavia,  leaning  towards  her  and  including  all  the  children 
with  her  eyes.  "He  had  real  happiness  with  each.  And 
he  and  I  are  often  happy  together  now.  But  time  must 
bring  changes.    It  cannot  be  helped  or  explained." 

"It  could  be  explained,  I  expect,"  said  her  daughter, 
"if  people  liked  to  do  it.  I  daresay  most  things  could  be. 
But  I  see  they  would  not  like  to." 

"How  would  you  manage  it?"  said  Cassius. 

"I  did  not  mean  I  was  different  from  other  people." 

"What  is  the  good  of  anything,  if  nothing  lasts?"  said 
Henry. 

"One  thing  lasts,"  said  Flavia,  bending  forward.  "A 
mother's  love  for  her  children." 

"And  they  haven't  their  mother,"  said  Henry,  looking 
at  his  brothers.  "And  she  hasn't  them,  even  though  her 
love  lasts.   Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!" 

"They  share  your  mother  with  you." 

44 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"The  boy  must  see  what  is  before  him,"  said  Cassius. 

"Everyone  has  to  do  that,"  said  his  son. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  Cassius. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  it  is,  though  people  don't  understand 
it." 

"Mater's  little  boy,"  said  Toby,  running  across  the  room. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  you  are,"  said  Flavia. 

Toby  rested  his  eyes  on  Henry,  and  his  mother  mis- 
interpreted him. 

"Yes,  Mater's  two  little  boys." 

"No,"  said  Toby,  with  a  wail. 

"No,  it  is  only  Toby." 

"Not  Megan,"  said  Toby,  waited  for  assurance  and 
returned  to  his  play. 

"Is  no  one  troubled  by  standing?"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"We  never  have  chairs,"  said  Henry. 

"Surely  that  does  not  matter  for  half-an-hour,"  said  his 
father. 

"I  did  not  say  it  did." 

"Did  you  not  imply  it?   Using  that  self-pitying  tone!" 

"We  only  have  one  voice  to  use  for  everything." 

"Yours  is  certainly  used  only  for  one  thing.  It  is  useful 
for  that." 

"Well,  yours  is  only  used  for  one  thing  too." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"You  would  not  like  it,  if  I  told  you,  and  I  expect  you 
know." 

"Is  Miss  Ridley  waiting  for  you  all?"  said  Flavia. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Megan.   "Yes,  I  suppose  she  is." 

"She  reads  a  book,"  said  Guy.  "I  expect  we  shall  have 
to  go  for  a  walk." 

"What  an  obligation!"  said  Cassius.    "It  is  almost  as 

45 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

bad  as  being  without  a  chair.    Surely  Fabian  does  not 
walk  with  women  and  children?" 

"We  go  with  Bennet  or  Eliza,"  said  Megan.  "Only  he 
and  Guy  go  with  Miss  Ridley." 

"An  odd  sight  it  must  be." 

"We  are  not  self-conscious,"  said  Fabian. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  am?"  said  his  father. 

"I  did  not  mean  anything,  but  it  sounds  as  ifyou  must  be." 

"Do  you  all  like  Miss  Ridley?"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"I  don't  mind  her,  Grandpa,"  said  Megan. 

"And  the  boy,  Henry?" 

"I  don't  mind  her  either." 

"Toby  not  mind  her,"  said  Toby,  running  forward. 

"I  wonder  if  she  minds  any  of  you,"  said  Flavia,  smiling. 

"She  minds  Guy  the  least,"  said  Henry. 

"I  think  that  is  a  common  view  of  Guy.  But  I  am  sure 
she  is  kind  to  you  all." 

"Bennet  is  kind,"  said  Toby. 

Eliza  entered  to  fetch  her  charges,  and  Toby  departed 
on  her  arm  without  a  backward  glance,  nursing  his 
possessions.  In  the  schoolroom  Miss  Ridley,  clothed  to  go 
out,  was  reading  on  an  upright  chair.  She  rose,  put  the 
marker  in  her  book  and  carried  it  with  her. 

"Now  where  shall  we  go  for  our  walk?  Whose  turn  is  it 
to  choose?" 

"Let  us  go  to  the  hayfield,  where  we  can  sit  down,"  said 
Guy. 

Miss  Ridley  set  off  in  this  direction,  looking  at  the  scene 
about  her  and  drawing  her  pupils'  attention  to  anything 
of  interest  by  the  way.  Her  life  was  divided  between  her 
conscience  and  her  inclination;  it  was  her  concern  to  strike 
the  mean  between  them,  and  her  merit  that  she  did  so. 

46 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Now  get  some  exercise,"  she  said,  as  she  took  her  own 
seat  on  some  hay. 

The  boys  moved  out  of  her  sight  and  sank  down  on  the 
ground. 

"Walking  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  meaning,"  said 
Guy. 

"It  ought  to  come  under  the  head  of  hard  labour,"  said 
his  brother.   "As  it  does  in  prisons,  where  the  treadmill  is 
a  form  of  it.  I  wish  Henry  had  not  so  much  sympathy  with 
us.  We  know  we  are  in  a  pathetic  position." 
"Are  we?"  said  Guy,  with  some  interest. 
"You  are  not,  because  you  do  not  realise  you  are." 
"I  know  we  are  not  with  our  own  mother." 
"I  don't  think  you  do.   It  is  Henry  who  knows.   I  wish 
he  could  forget." 

"Boys,"  called  Miss  Ridley,  her  voice  revealing  that  she 
did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her  book,  "you  are  not  idling, 
are  you?" 

Her  pupils  were  silent,  as  though  out  of  earshot,  and 
resumed  in  a  lower  tone. 

"Our  characters   are   getting  worse,"   said   Guy.     "I 
think  it  is  because  it  does  not  matter  to  anyone." 
"I  should  not  have  expected  you  to  see  that." 
"I  see  things  more  often  than  I  used  to.    That  is  what 
Father  does  not  know." 

"You  are  altering  as  quickly  as  Toby,"  said  Fabian, 
turning  on  his  elbow  to  look  at  his  brother. 
"Has  Father  ever  been  fond  of  anyone?" 
"Of  both  his  wives,  if  the  present  one  is  to  be  believed." 
"She  is  always  to  be  believed,"  said  Guy. 
"That  is  true.    So  he  was  fond  of  both,  but  failed  to 
maintain  the  feeling." 

47 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Did  our  mother  go  away  from  him,  or  he  from  her?" 

"They  arranged  a  divorce.  I  heard  Bennet  teUing  Miss 
Ridley.  She  stayed  away  for  years,  and  now  she  has 
come  back.  Her  home  was  always  here,  with  her  brother 
and  sister.  It  is  less  than  a  mile  away,  and  we  have  not 
seen  her  for  nine  years.  It  was  supposed  to  be  best.  I 
wonder  what  the  worst  would  have  been." 

"What  should  we  call  her,  if  we  saw  her?" 

"We  called  her  'Mother'.  I  can  just  remember.  That 
is  why  we  called  this  mother  'Mater'.  And  then  the 
younger  ones  called  her  the  same,  so  that  there  should  be 
no  difference." 

"What  is  the  colour  of  our  mother's  hair?" 

"It  used  to  be  dark,  but  perhaps  it  is  grey  by  now.  I 
thought  she  was  tall,  but  I  believe  she  is  not.  I  wish  we 
could  leave  this  house  that  has  never  been  a  home  to  us." 

"What  is  a  real  home  like?" 

"It  is  something  you  do  not  know,  and  I  can  only  just 
remember.  My  life  was  over  when  I  was  four.  I  wonder 
how  many  people  can  say  that." 

"Then  I  have  hardly  had  a  life  at  all." 

"Well,  you  have  accepted  a  substitute." 

"I  never  know  whether  I  have  or  not.  I  don't  see  how 
I  can  know." 

"Boys,  look  at  those  corncrakes,"  said  Miss  Ridley, 
appearing  round  the  haystack  with  the  effect  of  some- 
thing artificial  at  war  with  nature.  "We  do  not  often  see 
two  together.  And  listen  to  their  raucous  cry.  It  is  a 
sound  one  always  likes  to  hear." 

"It  is  true  that  one  does,"  said  Fabian,  "though  there 
does  not  seem  any  reason." 

"Have  you  finished  your  book?"  said  Guy. 

48 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,  some  time  ago.  I  have  been  enjoying  my  sur- 
roundings.  And  now  we  must  turn  towards  home." 

"What  is  the  word  supposed  to  mean?"  said  Fabian. 

"Come,  come,  no  more  of  that,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

When  they  reached  the  garden,  Henry  and  Megan  were 
standing  about  it,  unoccupied.  Toby,  who  was  never  in 
this  state,  was  once  more  devoted  to  the  service  of  William, 
who  was  shovelling  litter  into  a  barrow.  Toby  was 
plucking  single  leaves  and  adding  them  to  its  contents. 

"Soon  be  full,"  he  said  to  Miss  Ridley. 

"You  are  a  busy  little  boy." 

"Big  boy.   So  very  busy." 

"Will  you  be  a  gardener  when  you  grow  up,  sir?"  said 
William. 

"No,  Toby  have  one." 

"Will  you  have  me,  sir?" 

"Yes,  have  William." 

"Father  has  him,"  said  Megan. 

"No,  not  Father;  Toby." 

"Perhaps  Father  will  be  dead  by  then,"  said  Henry. 

"Yes,  poor  Father." 

"What  will  you  be  yourself,  sir,  when  you  are  a  man?" 

"Have  a  church,"  said  Toby.   "Speak  in  a  loud  voice." 

"Well,  I  shall  come  to  your  church,  sir." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Toby  instantly.  "Not  people  like 
WiUiam." 

"What  kind  of  people?"  said  Megan. 

"People  like  Father." 

"Do  you  Uke  Father  better  than  William?" 

"No,  like  WilUam." 

"You  would  want  everyone  to  come  to  your  church," 
said  Miss  Ridley. 

49 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Toby,  solemnly.    "Not  church." 

"Why  do  you  choose  this  part  of  the  garden?"  said  Miss 
Ridley,  not  carrying  the  subject  further. 

"Toby  wanted  to  talk  to  William,"  said  Henry. 

"But  Eliza  is  watching  Toby,"  said  Miss  Ridley,  per- 
ceiving the  former  standing  in  the  background,  in 
fulfilment  of  her  afternoon  duty  of  seeing  that  Toby's 
contentment  did  not  fail.  "  Why  don't  you  find  some- 
thing to  do?   Toby  sets  you  an  example." 

"He  doesn't  understand  what  William  is  doing,"  said 
Henry. 

"William  say  'Thank  you',"  said  Toby,  in  refutation 
of  this. 

"Doesn't  he  ever  bring  more  than  one  leaf  at  a 
time?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Toby,  placing  a  leaf  with  care.  "One 
little  leaf." 

William  threw  a  flower-pot  into  the  barrow,  and  Toby 
fell  into  mirth  as  it  broke.  William  threw  another  with 
similar  result,  and  Eliza  started  forward  in  consternation. 

"He  must  not  get  excited  at  this  time  of  the  day." 

"Not  time  for  tea,"  said  Toby,  with  a  scowling  violence 
that  supported  her. 

William  tossed  a  dead  mole  into  the  barrow. 

"No,"  said  Toby,  shrilly.   "Poor  little  mouse!" 

William  displayed  the  mole  in  his  hand,  and  Henry 
came  up  and  gazed  at  it. 

"How  soon  will  decay  set  in?" 

"It  has  real  hands,"  said  Megan. 

Toby  bent  his  head  and  reverently  kissed  the  mole. 

"Very  soft.   Nice  fur.   Dear  little  mouse!" 

"Why  did  it  die?"  said  Megan,  in  an  offhand  manner. 

50 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  everything  dies  in  the  end,  miss.  It  will  happen 
to  us  all." 

Megan's  face  cleared  at  the  thought  of  this  common  fate. 
The  mole  had  only  borne  what  she  would  bear  herself. 

"Now  you  can  have  a  funeral,"  said  Eliza,  in  simple 
congratulation. 

"We  must  put  the  mole  in  a  box,"  said  Henry,  with 
more  zest  than  he  had  shown  that  day.  "Or  it  will  just 
enrich  the  ground  as  it  decays." 

"It  wouldn't  know  anything  about  that,"  said  his  sister. 

The  burial  took  place  later,  as  preparation  was  involved. 
Toby  officiated  at  his  own  insistence,  and  Eliza  and  the 
other  children  followed  the  mole  to  the  grave.  William 
was  hailed  and  his  attendance  demanded,  Toby  waiving 
the  question  of  the  class  of  his  congregation  in  favour  of  its 
size. 

"So  I  am  at  your  church  after  all,  sir." 

Toby  raised  a  finger  and  began  to  speak. 

"O  dear  people,  we  are  gathered  together.  Dearly 
beloved  brethren.  Let  us  pray.  Ashes  and  ashes.  Dust 
and  dust.  This  our  brother.  Poor  little  mole!  Until  he 
rise  again.   Prayers  of  the  congregation.   Amen." 

"Why,  you  will  make  a  proper  parson,  sir." 

Toby  took  no  notice  and  went  on  his  knees,  signing  to 
his  audience  to  follow.  William  was  behindhand  in  his 
response,  and  Toby  frowned  upon  him  and  waited  for  it. 

"The  Lord  keep  you.  His  face  shine.  Kneel  down  a 
long  time  before  you  go.   Give  you  peace.   Amen." 

The  company  rose  with  a  rustle  certainly  reminiscent 
of  a  dispersing  congregation,  and  another  voice  was  heard. 

"What  is  all  this?  How  did  he  learn  this  sort  of  thing? 
How  and  when  did  it  happen?   I  desire  to  know." 

51 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"He  was  taken  to  a  children's  service,"  said  Megan, 
looking  at  her  lather.  "It  was  the  day  when  a  village  child 
had  died.  He  made  Eliza  read  the  service  to  him  after- 
wards.  He  likes  that  sort  of  thing." 

"He  always  listens  at  prayers,"  said  Henry. 

"And  you  do  not?"  said  Cassius. 

"I  listen  like  other  people.   Toby  is  different." 

"I  should  not  have  believed  it.  It  is  a  most  unsuitable 
thing.  And  if  you  call  it  reverent,  I  do  not." 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  Flavia.  "Indeed,  I  am  sure  of  it. 
I  had  the  sense  of  guilt  that  I  have  in  church." 

"He  brings  back  Mr.  Fabian  to  me,  sir,"  said  William, 
recalling  to  Cassius  a  brother  in  the  Church  who  had  died 
in  estrangement  from  him.  "He  is  the  living  spit  and  will 
be  more  so." 

Cassius  was  silent,  and  Bennet  approached  from  the 
house,  holding  her  hands  under  her  apron  and  emitting 
song.    She  smiled  easily  on  the  children. 

"Miss  Bennet,  what  do  you  think  of  this?"  said  Cassius. 
"A  child  of  Toby's  age  conducting  a  funeral,  and  with  a 
knowledge  that  had  to  be  seen  to  be  believed!  What  is 
your  view  of  it?   I  wish  to  know." 

"Did  he?"  said  Bennet,  looking  at  Toby  in  incredulity 
and  admiration.    "Fancy  his  doing  a  thing  like  that!" 

"Do  you  think  it  is  as  it  should  be?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Bennet,  gathering  up  Toby  and  regard- 
ing him  with  a  mild  concern  that  gave  place  to  reassur- 
ance.   "It  is  quite  natural.   It  does  not  mean  anything." 

"A  funeral  in  church  seems  to  have  made  a  deep 
impression  on  him." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Bennet,  looking  again  at  Toby  and 
hitching  him  into  an  easier  position  on  her  arm.    "He  is 

52 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

not  at  all  upset.  He  likes  anything  in  the  way  of  a 
ceremony.   It  was  the  same  with  the  village  play." 

"It  is  Mr.  Fabian  again,  sir,"  said  William.  "Preaching 
and  play-acting  go  together.   There  is  a  lot  in  common." 

Gassius  again  said  nothing.  They  had  gone  together 
in  the  case  of  his  brother,  with  whom  he  had  quarrelled  in 
consequence  of  it. 

"I  suppose  we  are  going  to  have  tea  to-day,"  said  Henry. 

"Upon  my  word  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  his  father.  "It 
is  time  for  you  all  to  be  asleep." 

"It  is  a  little  late,"  said  Bennet.  "I  thought  it  was  best 
to  get  the  funeral  over." 

"Miss  Bennet,  your  attitude  to  a  funeral!  I  feel  I  have 
never  known  you.   I  am  seeing  you  for  the  first  time." 

"It  is  a  mole's  funeral,"  said  Henry.  "A  mole  is  not  a 
human  being." 

"It  is  the  confusion  between  them  that  is  my  point." 

"That  is  only  in  your  own  mind.  It  has  not  been  in 
anyone  else's." 

"What  is  that  writing?"  said  Gassius,  indicating  a  piece 
of  cardboard  on  the  grave,  and  stepping  nearer  to  it. 

"  *  My  name  is  Mole. 
I  lie  here  buried  deep. 
I  rest  beneath  this  scroll 
And  fold  my  hands  in  everlasting  sleep.' 

Who  wrote  that?" 
"I  did,"  said  Megan. 
"What  is  its  purpose?" 
"It  is  the  inscription  on  the  grave." 
"Well,  why  not  put  it  there  openly?" 
"I  did.    I  have  just  done  it." 

"There  seemed  to  be  something  surreptitious  about  it." 

53 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"There  wasn't  anything,"  said  Henry. 

"People  can't  be  very  open  about  poems,"  said  Guy, 
with  a  flush.    "Anyone  who  is  a  poet  knows  that." 

"And  arc  you  a  poet?"  said  his  father. 

"Not  as  good  a  one  as  Megan." 

"Who  helped  you?"  said  Cassius  to  the  latter. 

"No  one.    Guy  printed  the  words." 

"So  yours  was  the  secondary  part,"  said  Cassius  to  his 
son.   "It  is  a  strange  game." 

"You  seemed  to  think  it  was  not  a  game,"  said  Henry. 

"And  so  did  all  of  you.  You  were  as  solemn  as  mutes 
over  it.   No  wonder  Toby  was  in  a  state  of  confusion." 

"He  was  in  a  state  of  bliss,"  said  Flavia,  "the  rare  bliss 
of  self-fulfilment.  We  will  not  grudge  it  to  him.  It  will 
not  come  too  often." 

"Grudge  it?"  said  her  husband,  drawing  his  brows 
together.  "Who  would  grudge  anyone  anything?  What  a 
strange  idea!" 

"It  is  a  very  good  poem  for  so  young  a  child.  And  Guy 
has  printed  it  beautifully." 

"It  is  your  own  child  who  has  done  the  intellectual 
part." 

"As  it  happens  on  this  occasion.  It  might  not  on 
another." 

"Then  would  you  draw  so  much  attention  to  it?" 

"It  was  you  who  did  that.  No  one  else  would  have  done 
so." 

"That  is  what  I  thought.  It  seemed  to  be  somehow 
surreptitious." 

"It  was  quite  open.   That  is  how  you  came  to  see  it." 

"  'My  name  is  Mole,'  "  said  Cassius,  turning  again  to 
the  grave.   "I  might  as  well  say  'My  name  is  Man'." 

54. 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"The  mole  had  no  name  of  its  own,"  said  Henry.  "It 
couldn't  be  done  as  it  would  for  a  person." 

Cassius  repeated  the  lines  to  himself. 

"Again,"  said  Toby,  arrested  by  them. 

Cassius  repeated  them,  and  Toby  listened  in  enjoyment. 

"Again." 

"No,  no.   I  can't  keep  on  saying  them." 

"Again,"  said  Toby,  with  ominous  urgency. 

Flavia  repeated  the  lines,  and  the  task  was  taken  up  by 
Bennet,  as  she  carried  Toby  away.  When  her  memory 
failed,  Toby  was  able  to  correct  her. 

"  'My  name  is  Joy,'  "  said  Cassius,  frowning  to  himself. 
"I  seem  to  remember  something  of  the  kind,  something  by 
some  poet." 

"Megan  was  not  copying  anything,"  said  Guy.  "She 
wrote  the  poem  out  of  her  head." 

"Ah,  ha !"  said  his  father.  "So  it  was  out  of  someone  else's, 
and  I  daresay  the  better  for  that.  I  thought  it  was  rather 
professional  somehow;  it  struck  me  at  once.  And  then  it 
touched  a  chord  of  memory.  I  am  not  much  of  a  hand  at 
poetry,  but  I  was  equal  to  that.  It  came  on  me  all  in  a  flash." 

"It  may  be  an  echo,"  said  Flavia,  "but  it  was  probably 
unconscious.    And  it  is  a  small  matter." 

"Well,  we  may  as  well  be  clear  about  these  things.  It  is  as 
well  to  take  advantage  of  what  we  read  and  remember.  I 
recognised  it  in  a  moment.  I  was  not  in  a  second's  doubt." 

"Now  has  no  one  any  sense  of  time,"  said  Miss  Ridley, 
approaching  with  an  even  tread.  "And  does  no  one  hear 
a  bell?  And  has  no  one  any  desire  for  tea?" 

"I  heard  the  bell  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Cassius. 

"Then  why  did  you  not  say  so?"  said  his  wife. 

"Well,  why  should  I  think  everyone  else  was  deaf?" 

55 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  wish  you  were  my  pupil,  Mr.  Clare,"  said  Miss 
Ridley,  causing  Henry  and  Megan  to  exchange  a  glance. 
"\Ve  seem  to  be  in  a  class  by  ourselves." 

"So  you  read  poetry  with  them,  Miss  Ridley,"  said 
Cassius,  certainly  using  a  tone  of  fellow-feeling.  "I  dare- 
say it  is  a  good  thing  to  do.  I  have  read  some  poetry 
myself  and  remember  it." 

"Arc  you  clairvoyant,  Mr.  Glare,  that  you  can  tell  what 
I  do  by  looking  at  me?" 

Cassius  betrayed  that  he  did  not  judge  her  by  this 
method,  by  motioning  her  towards  the  grave. 

"Why,  there  is  original  work  on  foot.  Now  to  whom  do 
we  owe  this?" 

"To  Megan,"  said  Henry. 

"Well,  well,  we  will  not  say  to  whom  we  owe  it,"  said 
Cassius.  "And  I  forget  the  name  of  the  poet  myself.  It  is 
the  verse  that  I  remember." 

"Why,  it  is  very  nice,  Megan,"  said  Miss  Ridley.  "It  is 
at  once  true  and  imaginative,  and  the  lettering  is  very 
neat.  Well,  I  think  it  is  a  fortunate  mole  to  have  such  a 
funeral." 

"You  know  it  is  not,"  said  Henry. 

"Guy  printed  it,"  said  Megan. 

"And  who  imagined  it?"  said  her  father,  shaking  his 
head  and  smiling.  "Well,  we  won't  worry  about  that. 
There  is  no  end  to  the  mole's  good  fortune." 

"Mr.  Clare,  I  should  suspect  you  of  sardonic  intention, 
if  I  thought  it  was  in  character,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 
"Now  there  is  the  bell  again,  and  I  saw  Toby  being 
carried  in  some  time  ago.  He  was  having  some  verses 
said  to  him.  It  seems  that  poetry  is  in  the  air." 

"It  was  Megan's  poetry,"  said  Henry. 

56 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"There,  you  see,  Megan,  your  work  is  already  of  use. 
You  can  go  to  bed  to-night,  knowing  you  have  produced 
something  that  exists  outside  yourself.  That  is  a  great 
thing  to  feel." 

"You  have  prevented  her  going  to  bed  with  different 
feelings,"  said  Fabian,  as  he  followed  the  governess. 

"Why  are  people's  feelings  so  intense  when  they  are 
going  to  bed?"  said  Flavia.  "You  would  think  they  would 
be  dying  down." 

"You  might  have  said  more  to  encourage  Megan  in  her 
poetic  efforts,"  said  Gassius. 

"Do  you  mean  you  set  me  the  example?  What  a 
speech  to  come  from  you!" 

"Not  at  all.  You  were  in  a  position  to  praise  her;  I  was 
not.  I  knew  where  the  poem  came;  you  took  it  as  original. 
And  Megan  might  have  had  the  advantage  of  it.  Children 
are  sensitive  about  such  things." 

"You  have  forestalled  what  you  deserve,  but  that  shows 
you  know  you  deserve  it." 

"Shall  we  leave  this  thing?"  said  her  husband,  with  a 
gesture  towards  the  inscription.  "Or  would  it  be  fairer  to 
everyone  to  get  rid  of  it?" 

"What  do  you  think  yourself?" 

Gassius  glanced  at  it  again,  and  as  if  thinking  better  of 
taking  any  trouble,  lifted  his  shoulders  and  turned  away. 
He  gained  on  the  children  and  Miss  Ridley  and  walked 
behind  them. 

"Is  Father  happy?"  said  Guy. 

"He  is  often  satisfied,"  said  Megan.  "You  can  see  him 
having  the  satisfaction." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  about  grown-up  people  that 
children  cannot  understand,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 

57 


THE    PRKSENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  a  great  deal  thai  they  can,"  said  Fabian.  "That 
is  where  the  danger  hes." 

"I  don't  think  there  is  much  to  understand  about 
Father,"  said  Megan.  "When  he  is  unhappy  himself,  he 
wants  other  people  to  be." 

"You  cannot  judge  human  beings  as  simply  as  that," 
said  Miss  Ridley.  "They  are  complex  creatures  with 
many  conflicting  qualities." 

"Ah,  your  father  never  wants  you  to  be  unhappy,  my 
little  one,"  said  Gassius,  quickening  his  pace.  "It  is  true 
that  he  is  sometimes  unhappy  and  uncertain,  but  he  never 
wants  to  hurt  his  children.  And  it  was  a  beautiful  poem; 
it  has  made  him  proud  of  you.  And  if  it  shows  you  read 
poetry  yourself,  he  is  even  prouder.  But  he  has  his  own 
troubles.  You  must  not  expect  him  always  to  hide  it. 
Miss  Ridley  is  right  that  we  have  different  qualities." 

"I  think  there  is  generally  one  chief  one,"  said  Megan. 

"Well,  tell  us  the  chief  ones  of  the  people  you  know," 
said  Miss  Ridley,  in  an  easy  tone. 

"Yours  is  wanting  to  learn  all  you  can,  as  long  as  you  do 
what  is  right.  Bennet's  is  kindness ;  I  think  that  is  the  best. 
Mater's  is  fairness  to  everyone  and  a  sort  of  cleverness  in 
herself.  Fabian's  is  anger  because  he  hasn't  his  real 
mother.  I  don't  think  Guy  has  his  yet.  Toby's  is  wanting 
the  best  of  things  for  himself,  and  I  think  it  always  will  be." 

"And  what  is  Megan's?"  said  Gassius.  "A  power  of  in- 
sight into  the  human  heart?" 

"There  was  a  lot  that  was  true  in  what  she  said,"  said 
Henry.   "And  none  of  them  is  really  a  happy  quality." 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  his  father. 

"Yes,"  said  Henry,  meeting  his  eyes.  "That  is  what 
ought  to  be  said.   But  people  don't  like  you  to  say  it." 

58 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"If  they  did,  they  would  get  a  good  deal  of  pleasure 
from  you.  As  it  is,  they  get  something  else.  There  is  not 
so  much  difference  between  you  and  me,  if  what  you 
think  of  me  is  true." 

"You  should  not  have  heard  what  we  said." 

"Of  course  I  should.  It  was  my  duty  to  hear  it.  A 
father  has  to  know  his  children,  in  order  to  make  his 
plans  for  them.   I  shall  have  to  think  of  mine  for  you." 

"You  are  threatening  to  take  revenge." 

"Revenge?  On  whom  and  for  what?"  said  Cassius, 
throwing  up  his  brows.  "Oh,  you  are  the  object  for  it,  are 
you?" 

"Now  come  indoors,"  said  Miss  Ridley.  "You  are  too 
fond  of  the  sound  of  your  own  voices.  It  seems  that  this 
afternoon  will  never  end." 

When  Henry  and  Megan  entered  the  nursery,  their 
faces  cleared  at  the  sight  that  met  them.  Bennet  and 
Eliza  were  seated  at  the  table,  and  Toby,  in  his  chair  and 
reconciled  to  the  position,  was  murmuring  in  a  satisfied 
way  to  himself. 

"Ashes  and  ashes.  Dust  and  dust.  Poor  httle  mole  have 
dear  little  hands !  Smaller  than  Toby's;  very  small  hands. 
Poor  mole  buried  very  deep.  But  very  nice  box  and  wake 
up  again  to-morrow.  William  come  to  church;  yes,  poor 
William!  Bennet  give  Toby  some  first.  Not  Megan; 
Toby!" 

His  voice  rose  to  a  shriek  and  Bennet  supplied  him  at 
once,  an  order  of  precedence  that  his  brother  and  sister 
did  not  question. 


59 


CHAPTER    IV 

AiNGER  STRODE  acFoss  the  kitchcn  and  pulled  his  chair 
from  the  table. 

"Well,  we  have  reached  a  parting  of  the  ways.  There 
is  to  be  a  crossing  of  our  threshold." 

"In  what  shape?"  said  the  upper  housemaid. 

"Ah,  Kate,  that  is  asking  a  question." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  the  cook. 

"And  do  you  expect  me  to  answer  it?"  said  Ainger, 
leaning  back. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Well,  I  will  not  disappoint  you.  I  will  specify  the 
shape,  as  Kate  expresses  it.  It  is  to  be  that  of  the  former 
mistress." 

"So  she  is  to  be  allowed  access?"  said  Kate. 

"That  is  the  word,"  said  Ainger,  in  sympathy  with  it. 

"And  what  a  word!"  said  the  general  man,  finding 
himself  less  so.   "So  this  is  what  education  does  for  you." 

"It  might  have  done  more  for  us,"  said  Kate's  assistant. 
"We  might  be  in  houses  of  our  own." 

"The  damp  and  cramp  would  be  your  own  too,"  said 
Halliday.  "They  wouldn't  be  anyone  else's.  Look  at  Mrs. 
Frost,  presiding  at  her  table  as  if  she  were  under  her  own 
roof." 

"Must  you  look  at  me?"  said  the  latter,  with  her  eyes 
down. 

Mrs.  Frost  was  a  short  woman  of  fifty-eight,  with  a 

60 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

figure  that  expanded  from  shoulders  to  hips,  a  flat- 
featured,  ruddy  face,  and  large,  shallow-set,  hazel  eyes, 
that  seemed  to  fall  before  they  revealed  their  expression. 
Thomas  Halliday  was  a  lean,  wiry  man  over  sixty,  with  a 
long,  scraggy  neck,  cheeks  at  once  leathery  and  pendulous, 
indignant,  greenish  eyes  and  a  habit  of  throwing  back  his 
head  in  token  of  disgust.  He  had  been  in  the  household 
for  nearly  fifty  years^  and  had  advanced  from  page-boy 
to  general  man  and  advanced  no  further.  There  was  some- 
thing about  him  that  disqualified  him  for  personal  attend- 
ance on  the  family.  Mrs.  Frost  had  been  asked  if  she  knew 
what  it  was,  and  had  replied  simply  that  she  did. 

"Your  place  was  given  you  out  of  esteem  for  your 
parents,"  he  said  to  the  under-housemaid.  "You  were 
fortunate  to  get  it." 

"But  was  it  a  mark  of  esteem  for  me?"  said  Madge. 

"Esteem  may  come,"  said  Ainger.  "Personally  I  have 
no  complaint." 

"And  the  family  did  not  know  you  apart  from  any  other 
lad." 

"They  did  not,  Halliday.  But  they  know  me  now.  I 
think  they  would  say  so."  Ainger  leant  back  in  his  chair 
and  threw  one  leg  over  the  other  in  the  manner  of  his 
master. 

"I  am  content  to  be  what  I  am,"  said  Halliday.  "Would 
not  you  say  the  same,  Mrs.  Frost?" 

"No,"  said  the  latter. 

"And  a  contented  mind  is  a  continual  feast." 

"And  the  only  feast  you  will  get,"  said  Madge.  "So  it  is 
as  well  to  be  satisfied  with  it." 

"A  continual  feast,"  murmured  Mrs.  Frost,  glancing  at 
the  stove  behind  her.   "I  should  have  a  contented  mind." 

6i 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"What  more  do  I  want?"  said  Halliday. 
"Vou  don't  want  anything  more,"  said  Madge.    "That 
may  be  why  you  don't  have  it." 

"What  better  work  is  there  than  ours?  What  kind  is 
more  respectable  or  accorded  more  respect?" 

"Most  kinds,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"What  kind  accords  more  respect  to  other  people?"  said 
Madge. 

"I  do  not  grudge  it,"  said  Ainger.  "If  you  think  I  do, 
you  mistake  my  attitude." 

Madge  gave  a  laugh  that  seemed  to  be  meant  to  be 
heard,  and  turned  her  eyes  about  her.  Her  large,  blue 
eyes  and  full-coloured  face  seemed  more  insistent  than 
herself,  and  she  was  more  aware  of  them.  Her  figure  was 
short  and  ungainly,  but  of  this  she  did  not  allow  herself 
to  be  aware.  Her  superior  had  a  tall,  trim  form,  small, 
inconsistent  features,  small,  round,  dark  eyes  and  an  air 
of  general  acceptance  of  things.  Madge  was  thirty  and 
Kate  forty-six,  and  both  looked  about  their  age.  They 
were  companions  rather  than  friends,  and  would  have 
parted  without  distress. 

"Well,  has  the  master  one  wife  or  two?"  said  Madge. 
"It  seems  that  the  higher  you  are,  the  more  you  can  have. 
Solomon  had  hundreds." 

"And  was  said  to  be  the  wisest  man,"  said  Kate,  in  a 
serious  tone.  "But  I  doubt  if  the  master  is  wise  in  trans- 
cending the  number." 

"The  higher  you  are,  the  more  you  can  have  of  a  good 
many  things,"  said  Ainger. 

"Always  wanting  more,  more,  more!"  said  Halliday. 

"I  cannot  imagine  you  a  wife,  Mrs.  Frost,"  said  Kate. 

"Neither  can  I." 

62 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Haven't  you  ever  been  one?" 
"You  can  see  what  I  have  been." 

"Are  you  ashamed  of  not  being  one?"  said  Madge, 
laughing. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 
"Mr.  Halliday  ought  to  propose  to  you." 
"Are  you  sure  he  has  not  done  so,  Mrs.  Frost?"  said 
Ainger.   "Your  secret  would  be  safe  with  me." 

A  boy  of  fourteen  entered  the  room,  came  to  his  seat  and 
began  at  once  to  eat,  as  though  to  cover  some  conscious- 
ness. 
"Well,  Simon,"  said  Halliday,  without  expression. 
"Well,  my  lad,"  said  Ainger,  with  one  of  authority  and 
threat. 

"He  has  put  on  his  page's  suit,"  said  Madge,  in  a  tone 
of  mild  excitement. 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  discarded  it,  Mr.  Ainger?" 
said  Kate.    "The  very  same  suit,  if  I  remember." 
"You  do  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 
"Twenty-four  years,"  said  Ainger.    "Ten  years  before 
the  boy  was  born." 

"So  the  world  was  prepared  for  his  entry,"  said  Kate, 
sighing. 

"He  has  polished  the  buttons!"  said  Madge. 
"The  only  improvement  he  could  make,"  said  Ainger. 
"And  I  never  thought  it  was  one.   It  drew  attention  to  the 
garb." 

"It  is  comical,"  said  Kate,  in  acquiescence.  "But  it 
suits  Simon  better  than  it  did  you.  He  looks  more  at  home 
in  it." 

"That  is  what  he  is.  He  is  born  and  bred  for  what  it 
indicates." 

63 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  what  were  you  born  and  bred  for?"  said  Halliday, 

"I  was  bred  for  that,  HalHday.  I  make  no  secret  of  it. 
I  was  born  for  something  else,  and  I  can  feel  I  have 
attained  it." 

"Put  into  words  what  you  have  attained." 

"Ah,  it  is  difficult  to  do  that  for  you,  Halliday,"  said 
Ainger,  leaning  back  with  an  appraising  eye  on  his 
colleague. 

"Simon  left  school  yesterday,"  said  Madge. 

"It  is  not  very  difficult  to  leave  something  off,"  said 
Kate. 

"Did  he  find  that  knowledge  was  power  ? ' '  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Money  is  power,"  said  Simon.  "And  you  get  money  by 
working." 

"Not  much  for  your  kind  of  work,"  said  Ainger. 

"It  is  the  same  kind  as  yours." 

"Now  remember  this,"  said  Ainger,  leaning  towards 
him.  "You  know  nothing  about  my  kind  of  work,  and  will 
always  know  nothing.    It  is  hidden  from  your  eyes." 

"And  from  a  good  many  people's,"  said  Halliday. 

"When  Mr.  Ainger  rises  further,"  said  Madge,  "we  shall 
remember  that  we  sat  at  the  same  table  with  him  in  his 
humble  days." 

"And  he  will  remember  your  doing  so,  Madge,"  said 
Ainger. 

"Will  he  return  to  claim  one  of  us?"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

Madge  looked  towards  the  window  with  wide  eyes. 

"Whomever  I  married,"  said  Kate,  "I  should  not  forget 
my  early  associates." 

"You  would  be  too  weighed  down  and  worried  to 
remember  anything,"  said  Halliday.  "You  are  better  as 
you  are." 

64 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Talking  of  marriages,"  said  Kate,  "  the  master's 
situation  invites  enquiry." 

"I  can  meet  it,"  said  Ainger.  "I  have  his  confidence. 
He  feels  that  a  mother's  feelings  command  respect.  I  am 
a  confidential  servant." 

"For  what  that  is  worth,"  said  Halliday. 

"It  is  worth  something  to  the  rest  of  us,"  said  Madge, 
"as  we  are  the  other  kind." 

"Everyone  is  a  servant  in  his  way,"  said  Halliday. 
"There  is  no  essential  difference." 

"Only  an  actual  one,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"It  is  hard  to  see  how  anyone  in  Mr.  Ainger's  situation 
can  rise  higher,"  said  Kate.  "If  there  was  any  method, 
we  might  all  resort  to  it." 

A  bell  sounded  in  the  passage  and  Simon  became  alert. 

"Answer  it,  my  boy,"  said  Halliday.  "Your  moment 
has  come." 

"Yes,  answer  it,"  said  Ainger.  "I  don't  want  to  insist 
on  the  prerogative." 

Simon  did  so  and  returned  flushed  and  satisfied. 

"I  did  what  they  wanted.  They  said  they  hoped  I 
would  do  well." 

"Well,  it  is  to  their  advantage,"  said  Kate.  "But  they 
confront  their  own  demands." 

"And  fulfil  them,"  said  Ainger.  "You  see  it  when  you 
are  in  contact." 

"Will  the  two  Mrs.  Clares  become  acquainted?"  said 
Kate.   "That  is  the  question  I  have  been  asking  myself." 

"And  what  answer  did  you  give  yourself?"  said  Ainger. 

"It  seems  there  is  bound  to  be  encounter." 

"What  is  it  to  do  with  us?"  said  Halliday. 

"As  much  as  anyone's  affairs  are  to  do  with  anyone 

65 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

else,"  said  Ainger.   "That  is,  nearly  as  much  to  do  with  us 
as  our  own." 

"And  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king,"  said  Kate,  with  a  sigh. 

"I  do  not  see  myself  in  that  light,"  said  Halliday,  "and 
1  have  reason  to  think  other  people  do  not.  Talking  of 
being  a  cat,  Ainger,  we  might  as  well  say  a  laughing 
hyaena." 

Ainger  leant  back  and  did  his  best  to  establish  the 
comparison,  and  Halliday  opened  his  mouth  and  did  no 
more.  The  bell  rang  again  and  was  answered  by  Simon, 
who  returned  and  crossed  the  kitchen  with  a  withdrawn 
expression. 

"The  ash-trays  forgotten,"  said  Ainger,  idly. 

"By  whom?"  said  Halliday. 

"By  me.   I  have  other  things  to  think  of." 

"The  master's  affairs,"  said  Kate.  "It  is  true  we  are 
dependent  on  you  for  them." 

"Yes,  he  and  I  often  indulge  in  a  masculine  talk.  I  am 
asked  for  my  opinion.  But  I  sometimes  know  better  than 
to  give  it."   Ainger  shook  his  head. 

"Are  you  not  allowed  to  disagree?"  said  Madge. 

"It  tends  to  be  complex,  Madge.  As  must  arise  from 
contact." 

"The  trays  were  not  polished,"  said  Simon,  as  he  returned. 

"They  will  be  in  future,"  said  Ainger.  "And  by  you. 
Say  'Yes,  sir'." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Simon,  without  reluctance. 

"He  promises,"  said  Kate,  resting  her  eyes  on  Simon. 

"If  I  were  the  mistress,"  said  Madge,  "I  would  not 
consent  to  meet  the  first  Mrs.  Clare." 

"You  would  do  what  your  place  required  of  you,"  said 
Ainger.    "You  betray  your  unfitness." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  fitness  for  it  would  not  be  much  good  to  me." 

"It  would  not  help  her,"  said  Kate. 

"I  can  imagine  Mrs.  Frost  in  any  place,"  said  Halliday. 

"So  can  I,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.    "I  have  done  so." 

"Not  that  we  should  like  your  present  place  to  be  filled 
by  anyone  else." 

"A  sentiment  I  endorse,"  said  Ainger. 

"I  hardly  expected  this,"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  looking  down. 

Simon  laughed,  and  .\inger  looked  at  him  sternly. 

"The  boy  may  listen  to  the  talk,"  said  Kate. 

"But  not  suggest  commentary  on  it." 

The  bell  rang  once  more,  and  Simon  returned  ft-om 
answering  it  and  addressed  Ainger. 

"You  are  to  answer  the  bell  yourself,  and  not  always 
send  me." 

"Not  always  send  you!"  said  Ainger,  rising  and  leaning 
towards  him.  "Answer  the  bell  myself!  Answer  it  myself, 
did  you  say?   Tell  me  what  they  really  said." 

"They  said  what  I  told  you.   It  is  not  my  fault." 

"Answer  the  bell  myself!"  said  Ainger,  his  feet  moving 
rapidly.  "That  is  what  you  say  to  me!  Say  it  again,  and 
let  me  see  what  they  meant  by  it." 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Halliday. 

The  bell  rang  again  with  some  force,  and  Ainger  sped 
from  the  room  as  if  he  also  saw  it. 

"A  confidential  servant  seems  much  the  same  as  any 
other,"  said  Halliday. 

"They  may  want  to  make  some  confidence,"  said 
Madge. 

"I  suppose  they  always  do,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"There  is  nothing  incompatible,"  said  Kate. 

67 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Serving  other  people  can't  take  us  so  far,"  said  Halii- 
day. 

"It  must  take  them  further,"  said  Kate.    "It  is  to  be 
accepted." 

Ainger  returned  with  a  flushed  face,  humming  to  him- 
self, and  sat  down  idly  in  his  place. 

"Fetch  me  that  parcel  on  the  pantry  table,"  he  said  to 
Simon  presently. 

Simon  brought  it  to  him. 

"Unpack  it,"  said  Ainger  sharply,  as  if  the  direction 
should  have  been  superfluous. 

Simon  disclosed  a  box  of  cigars,  and  Ainger  took  it  and 
strolled  to  the  door. 

"So  the  cigars  spend  a  time  with  Mr.  Ainger  before 
they  go  to  the  master,"  said  Madge. 

"There  is  no  need  to  form  pictures,"  said  Kate. 

Ainger  returned  with  some  cigars  in  his  hand,  sat  down 
and  felt  for  matches. 

"A  mark  of  the  master's  regard,"  he  said  as  he  lighted 
one.    "I  thought  it  was  wise  to  answer  the  bell." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Ah,    people    can't    always    take    your    place,"    said 
Halliday,  with  his  eyes  on  the  cigars. 

Ainger  handed  him  one,  as  if  in  response  to  a  request, 
and  he  began  to  smoke. 

"You  haven't  reached  this  stage  yet,  Simon." 

"No,  and  I  never  shall.   It  is  a  waste  of  money." 

"Not  when  you  don't  pay  for  the  cigars,"  said  Madge. 

"Well,  that  is  on  some  occasions,"  said  Ainger,  "when 
the  master  feels  in  a  comradely  mood." 

"The  parcel  was  addressed  to  the  master.  Why  wasn't 
it  taken  to  him?" 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Was  he  to  unpack  it  himself?" 

"It  wasn't  sugar  or  tea." 

"And  if  it  had  been,  you  might  have  had  designs  on  it 
yourself,"  said  Ainger,  producing  mirth  and  ignoring  it. 

"In  all  the  years  I  have  been  in  this  house,"  said 
Halliday,  "I  have  never  had  a  cigar  offered  me." 

"Neither  have  I,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Well,  it  happens  to  me  sometimes,"  said  Ainger, 
watching  the  smoke  rise  from  his. 

"I  wonder  the  master  likes  to  ring  for  you,"  said 
Madge. 

"I  don't  know  that  he  does.  I  sometimes  catch  a  hint 
that  it  goes  a  little  against  the  grain.  He  is  in  the  grip  of 
circumstances." 

"He  has  a  peremptory  hand  on  the  bell,"  said  Kate. 
"Not  that  it  is  an  indication." 

"It  is  generally  the  mistress  who  rings.  And  with  regard 
to  her  I  have  no  claim." 

"I  have  a  respect  for  the  mistress." 

"And  she  would  expect  it,  Kate,  and  is  entitled.  But  my 
bond  is  with  the  master.  And  it  would  not  be  with  both. 
There  are  reasons." 

"And  they  not  on  good  terms?"  said  Madge. 

"It  is  complex,  Madge;  a  term  I  have  used  before." 

"Will  someone  fetch  me  some  apples  from  the  store- 
house?" said  Mrs.  Frost. 

Ainger  gave  a  nod  to  Simon,  and  he  rose  and  left  the 
room.  In  the  hall  he  encountered  the  sons  of  the  house  on 
their  way  to  the  garden. 

"Well,  Simon,"  said  Fabian. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir,"  said  Simon. 

"Can  you  have  a  game  with  us?"  said  Guy. 

69 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  have  left  school,  sir,"  said  Simon,  with  a  note  of 
suq^rise. 

"Very  nice  boy,"  said  Toby,  whose  hand  was  held  by 
Fabian. 

"What  do  you  want  to  be  when  you  grow  up?"  said 
Henry. 

"Very  nice  buttons,"  added  Toby. 

"A  butler,  sir,"  said  Simon. 

"Would  you  rather  be  a  butler  than  a  king?"  said 
Henry,  struck  by  something  in  the  tone. 

"Well,  perhaps  not,  sir,"  said  Simon,  brought  to  face 
with  another  kind  of  advancement. 

As  the  talk  went  on,  Toby  disengaged  his  hand  and 
wandered  about  the  hall.  He  saw  a  vase  on  the  table  and 
sent  his  eyes  from  it  to  his  brothers.  Then  he  went  behind 
the  table  and  threw  it  on  the  ground,  and  as  it  broke, 
gave  himself  to  guarded  mirth,  hampered  by  further 
glances.  Then  he  rejoined  the  group  and  placed  his  hand 
in  Fabian's. 

Bennet  came  singing  down  the  stairs. 

"Why,  look  at  that  vase!  Has  any  one  of  you  touched 
it?" 

"We  did  not  know  it  was  there,"  said  Fabian. 

Toby  kept  his  eyes  on  Simon. 

"Ohj  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  Henry,  looking  after  the 
latter.  "I  don't  want  to  be  a  servant.  And  if  I  did,  I 
could  be  one  and  be  happy." 

"Fabian  hold  Toby's  hand  too  tight,"  said  Toby, 
frowning  and  pulling  it  away. 

"It  kept  you  out  of  mischief,"  said  his  brother. 

"Very  good  boy,"  said  Toby. 


70 


CHAPTER   V 

Ursula,  our  hour  has  come,"  said  Elton  Scrope.  "1 
mean,  of  course,  that  the  hour  has  come.  The  occasion  is 
upon  us." 

"And  we  do  not  deserve  an  occasion.  No  one  deserves 
anything  so  good  or  so  bad.  We  all  deserve  so  little." 

"A  sister  is  returning  to  us,  who  was  said  to  be  our 
second  mother,  and  who  must  have  been  that,  as  what  is 
said  is  always  true;  a  sister  who  wrote  weekly  letters  and 
watched  over  us  from  afar." 

"And  now  will  watch  over  us  in  our  own  home.  No, 
we  do  not  deserve  it." 

"We  have  had  such  a  dear,  little,  narrow  life.  Will 
Catherine  broaden  and  enrich  it?  I  could  not  bear  a 
wealth  of  experience.  It  will  be  enough  to  live  with  some- 
one who  has  had  it." 

"She  will  be  too  occupied  with  adding  to  it  to  want  to 
share  it,"  said  Ursula. 

"So  we  do  want  the  occasion.  My  heart  told  me  we  did. 
We  are  jealous  of  her  other  life.  It  is  a  natural,  ordinary 
emotion,  but  I  do  think  we  can  claim  it." 

"What  is  the  good  of  a  second  mother,  if  she  becomes  the 
first  mother  of  other  people?  No  one  likes  the  second 
place.  No  place  at  all  is  different.  We  will  not  say  if  we 
should  like  that." 

"Will  you  give  up  the  housekeeping?" 
"Yes.   I  resent  being  supplanted,  but  I  am  glad  to  give 

71 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

it  up.    I  don't  mind  the  trivial  task,  but  I  dislike  being 
known  to  do  it.    I  am  sensitive  to  opinion." 

"Most  people  are  that." 

"I  don't  think  they  can  be,  when  I  am." 

"Don't  you  take  any  interest  in  household  things?  I 
take  so  much." 

"I  want  to  have  a  soul  above  them,  and  to  be  thought  to 
have  one." 

"I  have  a  soul  just  on  their  level.  Do  you  think  we  have 
souls?" 

"No,"  said  Ursula. 

"Do  you  mind  that?" 

"Not  yet;  I  am  only  thirty-two;  but  when  I  am  older  I 
shall  mind  it;  when  extinction  is  imminent.  Now  it  is 
too  far  away." 

"We  may  die  at  any  moment." 

"Not  you  and  I.  It  is  other  people  who  may  die  young." 

"Why  should  we  be  exceptions?" 

"I  don't  know.   I  wonder  what  the  reasons  are?" 

"You  don't  think  you  and  I  will  have  an  eternity 
together?" 

"No,  but  we  shall  have  until  we  are  seventy.  And  there 
is  no  difference." 

"Can  you  bear  not  to  have  the  real  thing?" 

"No,"  said  his  sister. 

"Then  when  you  are  older,  will  you  begin  to  have 
beliefs?" 

"No,  I  shall  realise  the  hopelessness  of  things.  I  shall 
meet  it  face  to  face." 

"And  will  you  be  proud  of  doing  that?" 

"Well,  think  how  few  people  can  do  it.  And  I  must  have 
some  compensation;   it  will  not  be  much." 

72 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  shall  not  be  able  to  face  it.  I  shall  begin  to  say  we 
cannot  be  quite  sure." 

"And  I  shall  like  to  hear  you  say  it.  Even  a  spurious 
comfort  is  better  than  nothing." 

"Is  it  unusual  to  dread  the  return  of  someone  to  whom 
we  owe  so  much?" 

"We  do  dread  people  to  whom  we  owe  things.  The 
debt  ought  to  be  paid,  and  anyone  dreads  that.  But  our 
debt  to  Catherine  is  of  the  sort  we  cannot  repay." 

"That  is  the  most  difficult  kind,"  said  Elton. 

"That  is  the  conventional  view.  And  convention  is 
usually  so  sound  that  it  is  right  to  be  a  slave  to  it.  But  it  is 
not  in  this  case." 

"Then  we  should  look  forward  to  her  coming." 

"I  am  getting  quite  excited,"  said  his  sister. 

"Not  as  excited  as  I  am.  I  must  rise  and  pace  the  room." 

"And  I  will  keep  my  seat  by  an  effort." 

Ursula  Scrope  had  a  tall,  thin  figure,  narrow,  dark, 
spectacled  eyes,  features  of  regular  type,  but  displaying 
sundry  turns  and  twists,  long,  useless-looking  hands,  and 
limbs  so  loosely  hung  that  they  seemed  to  be  insecurely 
joined  to  her  body.  Her  brother  was  two  years  younger 
and  of  similar  type,  with  a  rounder,  fuller  face,  rounder, 
lighter  eyes,  and  the  peculiarities  of  feature  modified. 
It  was  clear  that  their  relation  went  deep  and  would  last 
for  their  lives. 

"Ought  we  to  count  the  minutes  to  the  arrival?"  he 
said.  "I  believe  we  should  have  had  a  calendar  and 
crossed  out  the  days." 

"How  does  one  get  a  calendar?" 

"I  think  they  are  sent  at  Christmas,  though  I  don't 
know  v/hy.     I  suppose  Catherine  will  know." 

73 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"So  she  will.  How  restful  it  will  be!  We  shall  cease  to 
think  for  ourselves.  We  ought  never  to  have  done  so. 
What  was  the  good  of  a  second  mother?" 

"We  shall  relapse  into  childhood,"  said  Elton.  "No  one 
ever  really  comes  out  of  it.  That  is  why  life  is  such  a 
strain.  We  have  to  pretend." 

"And  why  people's  stories  of  their  childhood  are 
always  their  best.  They  don't  really  know  about  anything 
else.  To  write  about  it,  they  would  have  to  be  original. 
And  they  cannot  be  that." 

"Will  Catherine  be  proud  of  us?" 
"No.  Why  should  she  be?" 
"Ursula,  don't  you  see  any  reasons?" 
"Yes,  but  she  will  not  see  them.   Her  children  will  take 
all  her  pride." 

"And  yet  you  are  excited  by  her  coming?" 
"Well,  it  will  take  away  that  strange  nostalgia  for  some- 
thing that  has  no  name." 

"Will  it?  I  thought  I  had  just  to  carry  it  with  me." 
"The  arrival!"  said  Ursula,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
"What  a  good  thing  the  luggage  takes  the  whole  of  the 
trap!  It  is  dreadful  to  meet  people  at  the  station.  They 
see  you  as  you  really  are.  It  is  a  thing  that  does  not  happen 
anywhere  else." 

"I  thought  it  happened  chiefly  in  our  own  homes." 
"People  learn  to  ignore  things  there.   And  at  a  station 
they  simply  confront  them." 

"Well,  my  brother  and  sister!"  said  a  quick,  deep  voice, 
as  a  small,  dark  woman  came  rapidly  into  the  room, 
talking  in  short,  quick  sentences.  "My  desertion  of  you  is 
over.  Have  you  minded  it  as  much  as  I  have?  If  so,  you 
are  as  glad  as  I  am.  But  the  culprit  is  the  one  who  suffers. 

74 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

It  is  one  of  the  fair  things  in  Hfe.  And  I  shall  alter  it  all 
for  you.  I  shall  tell  you  its  meaning.  And  you  will  see  it 
as  I  do." 

"I  always  fail  at  moments  of  test,"  said  Ursula,  as  she 
bent  towards  her  sister.    "I  cannot  carry  things  off." 

"You  are  yourself.  As  I  looked  to  find  you.  I  would  not 
have  you  rise  to  an  occasion.  I  should  feel  you  were  some- 
one else." 

"But  a  more  manageable  person." 

"Not  the  person  I  looked  to  see.   Not  my  sister." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  a  success?"  said  Elton.  "I  have 
meant  my  silence  to  cover  so  much." 

"You  are  both  yourselves.  You  have  stood  the  years. 
My  anxiety  was  in  myself.  I  felt  that  change  had  come  to 
me.  I  feared  it  might  threaten  you.  But  the  onslaught  of 
life  has  been  easier  on  you.   May  it  always  be." 

"But  we  do  not  seem  people  who  have  not  lived?"  said 
her  brother. 

"You  have  not  lived  much  yet.  Your  time  is  to 
come." 

"Mine  is  not,"  said  Ursula.  "I  tolerate  nothing  that 
looms  ahead.   I  will  not  be  threatened  by  life." 

"I  am  rather  flattered  by  that,"  said  Elton,  "I  should 
have  thought  it  would  pass  me  by." 

"There  is  no  threat  yet,"  said  Catherine.  "Your  sky  is 
clear.  May  it  never  darken.  And  now  we  leave  the  heights 
and  depths.  I  see  we  are  rescued  from  them.  Ursula  will 
deal  with  the  tea  to-day.  I  will  be  the  guest.  Anything 
she  has  done  for  years,  she  can  do  once  more." 

Ursula  made  some  adjustment  on  the  tray  and  yielded 
her  place  to  her  brother. 

"Does  Elton  pour  out  the  tea?" 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,"  said  the  latter,  with  his  eyes  on  doing  so.  "My 
touch  is  as  sensitive  as  any  woman's." 

"More  sensitive  than  Ursula's?" 

"No,  but  more  successful." 

"This  is  a  thing  I  had  not  imagined.  I  suppose  there 
will  be  others." 

"No,"  said  Ursula,  "I  think  this  is  the  only  one." 

Catherine  looked  from  her  brother  to  her  sister. 

"You  have  had  your  feeling  for  each  other.  I  did  not 
take  that.  What  if  you  had  not  had  it?  What  should  I 
have  done?" 

"Would  you  not  have  done  what  you  have  now?"  said 
Ursula. 

"I  should.  It  is  the  truth.  I  will  not  fear  it.  But  how 
we  should  have  suffered,  both  of  you  and  I!" 

"Are  you  going  to  see  Cassius?"  said  Elton.  "The 
question  does  not  savour  of  curiosity." 

"It  simply  contains  it,"  said  Catherine,  smiling.  "I 
shall  see  my  sons.  I  shall  know  them.  They  will  know  me. 
I  may  or  may  not  see  their  father.  That  means  nothing." 

"You  have  taken  a  brave  step.  Fancy  my  being  able  to 
say  a  thing  like  that !  I  don't  think  Ursula's  lips  could  have 
framed  the  words." 

"It  was  easy  to  take  the  step.  I  had  to  do  so,  knowing  I 
was  breaking  faith.  That  had  been  a  thing  I  could  not  do. 
I  found  I  could  do  nothing  else." 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  face  reality,"  said  Elton. 

"What  do  you  call  this?"  said  Catherine,  taking  his 
hand  and  laying  it  on  Ursula's.  "The  feeling  between 
you.  What  is  that?" 

"The  foundation  of  our  life.  All  lives  must  have  a  found- 
ation.  I  was  thinking  of  the  things  that  come  after  it." 

76 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"It  is  best  to  have  a  foundation  and  not  to  build  on  it," 
said  Ursula. 

"Foundations!  Mine  were  torn  from  under  me.  I 
allowed  it  myself.  I  confused  the  incident  with  the 
essence.    I  have  paid  the  price." 

Catherine  Clare  had  a  short,  spare  figure,  straight, 
rather  handsome  features,  iron-grey,  curling  hair  and 
dark  eyes  that  seemed  to  realise  their  own  swift  glance. 
Her  voice  was  a  quick,  deep  monotone,  and  all  her  move- 
ments were  directed  to  what  she  did. 

"You  are  an  accomplished  tea-maker,  Elton.  I  shall 
hesitate  to  take  your  place." 

"I  have  always  hesitated,"  said  Ursula.  "I  am  un- 
certain of  myself  It  is  a  thing  that  is  known  about  me,  I 
think  the  only  one." 

"You  are  proud  of  it,"  said  Catherine,  smiling. 

"Well,  I  hope  people  think  I  am.  They  don't  despise 
you  for  things,  if  you  are  proud  of  them.  They  don't 
seem  to  mind  a  low  standard." 

"It  is  important  to  rinse  every  cup  with  hot  water,"  said 
Elton,  doing  as  he  said. 

"You  will  find  my  casual  methods  a  change,"  said 
Catherine.   "I  hope  you  will  not  mind  them." 

"Ursula  will  not.  I  shall  mind  them  very  much.  But 
wild  horses  would  not  drag  it  from  mc.  Though  I  hardly 
think  wild  horses  do  as  much  to  drag  things  from  people 
as  is  thought." 

Catherine  gave  her  quick,  deep  laugh. 

"I  could  never  give  anything  more  attention  than  I  felt 
it  deserved,"  she  said. 

"But  food  deserves  all  attention.  And  tea  is  an  English- 
woman's favourite  meal.   And  her  standard  is  mine." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  is  it  also  Ursula's?" 

"I  strive  to  make  it  so,"  said  the  latter,  "and  I  am  proud 
if  I  succeed.  I  am  a  person  with  my  own  pathos.  But  I 
hope  no  one  knows  that." 

"I  wonder  if  I  am,"  said  Elton.  "Or  is  my  pathos  so 
much  my  own  that  it  does  not  count?" 

"What  does  it  consist  of?"  said  Catherine. 

"Of  asking  so  little  of  life.  Of  feeling  that  is  all  I 
deserve.  Of  being  afraid  to  publish  what  I  write,  for  fear 
people  should  read  it.  Of  being  glad  that  I  cannot  afford 
to  marry,  in  case  I  should  do  so." 

"You  would  not  have  to  marry  because  you  could  afford 
to." 

"People  do  seem  to  have  to,"  said  Elton. 

"Would  you  like  to  marry,  Ursula?" 

"No,  but  I  wish  people  believed  it.  I  don't  like  to  have 
any  pathos  but  my  own." 

"Why  do  you  not  want  to?" 

"I  could  not  give  a  house  those  unmistakable  signs  of  a 
woman's  presence.    I  do  not  even  recognise  them." 

"I  hardly  think  I  gave  my  house  those  signs." 

"Then  perhaps  Gassius  had  his  own  pathos.  And  I  see 
it  must  have  been  his  own.  I  don't  wonder  you  could  not 
bear  it." 

"There  were  things  I  could  not  bear,"  said  Catherine, 
in  a  just  audible  tone. 

"I  could  not  bear  anything.  I  shut  my  eyes  to  that  side 
of  life." 

"What  do  you  know  about  life?"  said  her  sister. 

"Everyone  knows  all  about  it.  It  is  impossible  to  help 
it,  though  it  is  best  not  to  put  it  into  words." 

"Tell  me  what  you  know." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Let  me  do  it,"  said  Elton.  "It  is  not  short  and  will  not 
soon  be  gone.  It  is  longer  than  anyone  can  realise.  And 
it  is  very  brave  to  end  it.  To  say  it  is  cowardly  is  absurd. 
It  is  only  said  by  people  who  would  not  dare  to  do  it." 

"Some  people  dare  to  face  life,"  said  Catherine. 

"Most  people  do,"  said  Ursula.  "We  are  talking  of 
facing  death." 

"I  never  feel  disapproval,"  said  Elton.  "It  is  a  feeling 
foreign  to  my  nature.  I  hardly  need  to  know  all  to  forgive 
all.  Considering  the  pleasure  of  knowing,  that  is  only 
fair.  I  can  hardly  bear  to  know  it;  I  forgive  so  much.  I 
think  people  do  such  understandable  things." 

"Yes,"  said  Ursula;  "I  am  often  ashamed  of  under- 
standing them." 

"I  hope  I  understood,"  said  Catherine,  looking  straight 
before  her.  "I  hope  I  had  sympathy.  I  hope  I  did  not 
give  it  only  to  myself.  I  wonder  if  I  knew  my  husband's 
nature.   I  wonder  if  I  recognised  its  signs." 

"Signs  are  not  things  we  can  be  expected  to  study," 
said  her  brother. 

"I  wonder  if  I  measured  our  difference.  I  was  of  another 
character.  I  did  not  look  for  thrust  or  insult.  I  never 
retaliated,  but  I  forget  none.  The  load  of  memory  became 
too  great.  He  did  not  know  what  I  carried  with  me.  His 
burden  was  light." 

"We  sometimes  see  the  boys  in  the  distance.  They  are 
growing  up," 

"Yes,  I  have  missed  their  childhood.  I  have  faced  it 
every  day,  given  each  its  own  loss." 

"I  have  said  an  insensitive  thing,  and  I  did  not  think  I 
could.  It  is  terrible  to  know  oneself.  I  hope  I  shall  never 
get  to  know  the  whole." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Do  they  know  I  am  here?"  said  Catherine. 

"Yes,  they  must  know.  Our  servants  talk  to  theirs.  I 
listen  to  servants'  gossip.  It  is  one  of  my  weaknesses  and 
my  pleasures." 

"They  are  often  the  same,"  said  Ursula.  "Perhaps  they 
always  are." 

"No  wonder  we  do  not  conquer  our  failings,"  said 
Catherine. 

"Do  you  wish  you  had  stayed  with  your  husband?"  said 
her  brother. 

"I  found  I  could  not  stay.  I  took  the  way  that  offered. 
I  accepted  the  gain  and  loss.  Or  I  thought  I  did.  But  I 
find  I  cannot  do  so.  I  am  breaking  my  word.  I  have  lost 
so  much,  that  I  have  lost  myself." 

"How  do  you  feel  about  the  boys  living  with  their 
father?"  said  Ursula. 

"I  would  take  nothing  from  them.  I  have  learned  to 
measure  loss.  And  in  a  way  it  means  nothing.  He  is  a 
dead  figure  in  my  heart.  I  could  meet  him  and  say  my 
word.  I  could  see  him  go,  the  same  dead  thing.  But  to 
his  children  he  is  alive." 

"I  wonder  what  he  means  to  them." 

"I  have  wondered  it  night  and  day." 

"I  do  enjoy  this  personal  talk,"  said  Elton.  "I  know 
I  ought  to  be  ashamed,  but  creditable  pleasure  is  so 
hard." 

"Like  rejoicing  in  other's  joy,"  said  Ursula.  "Though 
that  is  an  extreme  case." 

"They  do  say  we  should  eschew  the  personal  and  pursue 
wider  things,"  said  Catherine. 

"It  would  serve  them  right  to  have  to  do  it,"  said  her 
sister.    "If  they  had  to  fulfil  their  boasts,  what  a  lesson  it 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

would  be !  They  ought  to  be  made  to  talk  about  national 
affairs." 

"Well,  people  do  talk  about  such  things." 

"So  I  have  heard,"  said  Elton,  "but  I  do  not  want  any 
proof." 

"If  you  listen  to  servants,  you  must  find  the  men  some- 
times talk  of  them,"  said  Catherine. 

"I  listen  to  the  women.  It  is  some  instinct  of  self- 
protection.  And  it  is  their  standard  I  admire,  their 
integrity  of  interest  and  purity  of  aim.  What  a  good  thing 
there  are  so  many  more  of  them  than  men!" 

"The  men  tend  to  be  more  reliable  witnesses." 

"Yes,  and  they  are  not  ashamed  of  it.  Not  ashamed  of 
being  without  creative  power.  No  woman  would  be  so 
shameless.  She  would  have  no  friends.  No  other  woman 
would  tolerate  it." 

"She  might  have  men  friends." 

"Well,  that  would  be  her  punishment." 

"I  suppose  some  men  talk  of  personal  things." 

"There  are  some  happy  marriages,"  said  Ursula.  "So 
they  must." 

"A  man  is  supposed  to  eat  his  breakfast  with  the  paper 
propped  up  before  him,"  said  Catherine. 

"Well,  he  has  to  quote  from  it  and  pretend  he  thought  it 
all  himself,"  said  Elton.  "But  I  don't  suppose  Cassius  did 
that." 

"No,  he  tended  to  the  personal.  But  the  personal  note 
must  be  the  real  one.  It  ends  the  interest  of  things,  if 
they  are  not  rooted  in  the  truth." 

"Sometimes  it  adds  to  it,"  said  Ursula.  "That  seems  to 
be  its  purpose.  How  it  does  add  to  it !  It  even  does  for  the 
whole." 

8i 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Distortion  seems  always  to  tend  to  people's  dis- 
advantage." 

"Well,  it  may  as  well  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone." 

"What  good  docs  it  do  us  to  disparage  people?" 

"I  am  not  sure,  but  it  seems  to  be  great  good.  Perhaps 
it  makes  us  better  by  comparison." 

"Do  we  do  everything  for  our  own  advantage?" 

"Yes,  I  think  we  do.  No  one  else  does  anything  for  it. 
So  it  takes  all  our  time  to  get  enough  done." 

"I  have  a  dislike  of  the  simple  sin  of  saying  behind 
people's  backs  v/hat  we  do  not  say  to  their  faces,"  said 
Catherine,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"It  does  seem  strange  of  you  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
what  is  simple." 

"It  would  be  a  more  complex  sin  to  do  both,"  said 
Elton. 

"It  would  be  better  than  only  doing  the  first,"  said 
Catherine. 

"I  thought  the  first  was  always  done,"  said  her  sister. 

"I  suppose  criticism  may  be  honest.  Or  is  that  the  most 
unkindest  cut  of  all." 

"Well,  it  is  always  a  cut,"  said  Ursula. 

"Is  it  necessary  to  indulge  in  any  kind  of  disparage- 
ment?" 

"Well,  it  is  a  temptation,"  said  Elton.  "Look  at  your 
word,  'indulge'.  And  we  are  only  told  to  make  an  excep- 
tion of  the  dead." 

"And  it  is  no  good  to  say  behind  people's  backs  what  can 
never  get  round  to  them,"  said  Ursula. 

A  servant  opened  the  door  and  spoke  to  Catherine. 

"Will  you  see  Mr.  Clare,  ma'am?  And  if  so,  would  you 
prefer  to  see  him  alone?" 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  will  see  him,"  said  Catherine,  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "And  it  need  not  be  alone.  He  can  come  in  here." 

"This  is  more  than  I  hoped  for,"  said  Elton  to  Ursula. 
"Is  it  almost  too  much?  Can  we  bear  it?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  It  will  be  a  scene  from  life,  and  I 
have  never  met  one." 

"I  think  I  can  face  it,"  said  her  brother,  placing  himself 
where  he  could  do  so. 

Cassius  entered  the  room  with  his  usual  deliberate 
stride,  keeping  his  eyes  from  anyone's  face, 

"Well,  Catherine,  I  thought  it  was  best  to  take  the  bull 
by  the  horns.  Preparing  for  the  interview  and  working 
ourselves  up  would  do  no  good.  So  I  braced  myself  up 
and  acted  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  And  standing  in 
front  of  you  as  I  am,  I  still  think  it  was  the  right  thing.  I 
often  find  my  impulses  lead  me  in  the  right  direction.  This 
isn't  by  any  means  the  first  case  of  it.  Well,  how  are  you, 
Catherine,  after  all  these  years?  It  is  best  to  ask  the 
question  in  the  usual  way.  The  less  awkwardness,  the 
better.   You  are  very  little  changed." 

"Perhaps  to  your  eyes.   To  me  the  change  is  great." 

"Well,  no  one  would  know  it.  I  don't  know  how  much  I 
am  changed  myself.  I  expect  you  would  have  recognised 
me. 

"There  is  little  outward  difference." 

"Well,  as  I  say,  I  took  my  courage  in  my  hands  and 
came  before  I  had  time  to  think.  A  deadlock  would  not 
have  served  us.  Well,  it  is  a  long  time  since  we  met." 

"Yes,  it  is  nine  years." 

"Not  since  Fabian  was  a  child  of  four." 

"Not  since  then." 

"You  would  be  surprised  to  see  him  now." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"As  a  boy  of  thirteen?  No,  that  is  how  I  think  of  him." 

"So  we  are  to  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead?" 

"The  past  is  dead,"  said  Catherine,  in  a  low  tone.  "It 
has  no  dead  to  bury.   My  sons'  lives  are  young." 

"Yes,  that  is  true.  But  they  have  had  a  good  mother  in 
my  wife." 

"They  have  had  a  good  woman  with  them." 

"You  left  them  of  your  own  will." 

"You  made  it  a  condition.  I  had  no  choice  but  to  leave 
them." 

"Well,  well,  we  need  not  go  into  that.  We  are  to  meet 
now  on  other  terms.  We  understand  each  other." 

"I  wonder  if  you  understand  me.  I  have  not  helped 
you.  I  have  returned  to  my  own  place.  That  place  is 
near  my  children.  I  will  not  go  further.  I  will  not  say  it 
is  wdth  them.  I  have  come  back  to  see  them,  to  know 
them,  to  break  my  faith.  I  have  not  the  power  to  keep  it. 
For  years  it  has  been  growing  too  much  for  me.  It  has 
grown  too  much.  I  would  rather  see  them  with  your 
sanction.  I  would  not  impose  on  them  further  burdens. 
I  do  not  know  how  much  they  have  borne." 

"They  have  had  nothing  to  bear,  and  will  have  nothing. 
But  I  understand  your  wish  to  see  them.  We  can  probably 
arrange  a  meeting.   It  is  a  simple  thing." 

"Is  your  wife  willing  for  us  to  have  it?" 

"Well,  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  her,  Catherine.  You  must 
see  that.  But  she  is  a  woman  who  sees  what  is  right  and 
does  it.  That  is  the  key  to  her  nature.  And  it  seemed  to 
me  that  this  was  a  right  thing.  I  do  not  beheve  in  being 
bound  by  the  past.  So  I  put  it  to  her;  perhaps  I  imposed  it 
on  her.  I  may  do  that  sometimes;  I  daresay  you  remem- 
ber.   After  all  it  is  for  me  to  take  the  lead.   And  she  let 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

herself  be  guided  by  me.  She  saw  that  change  was 
gathering.  Change  seems  to  come  of  itself  when  the  time 
is  ripe.  I  don't  think  we  have  much  to  do  with  it.  We 
are  in  the  hands  of  unseen  forces.  Well,  when  do  you  want 
to  see  the  boys?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can.  And  in  their  home.  So  that  I  know 
the  truth  about  them." 

"You  can  come  on  them  at  any  moment,  and  the  truth 
will  be  before  your  eyes.  If  there  was  anything  wrong,  it 
would  be  a  good  deal  by  now." 

"Yes,  each  day  has  done  its  work.  It  has  taken  them  a 
step  further." 

"Ah,  you  have  your  own  way  of  putting  things, 
Catherine.  You  always  had.  I  don't  know  that  I  mean  so 
much  less,  though  I  sound  so  different.  It  brings  things 
back  to  me :  I  admit  that  it  does.  How  the  stages  of  our 
life  pass !  Well,  I  will  speak  to  my  wife.  I  don't  know  how 
much  it  will  be  asking  of  her." 

"It  should  not  be  too  much.  It  will  serve  the  children. 
She  has  wished  to  serve  them." 

"It  has  gone  beyond  the  wish.  She  has  given  them  of 
her  best.  You  and  I  should  both  be  grateful." 

"I  know  it.  I  hardly  can  be.  I  must  feel  she  has  had 
what  is  mine." 

"Well,  in  a  way  you  will  have  what  is  hers.  You  are 
bound  to  undo  her  work  in  a  measure.  You  will  do  it  as 
little  as  you  can.  I  must  trust  you  there,  Catherine,  odd 
word  though  it  is  to  pass  between  you  and  me." 

"You  may  trust  me.  And  I  will  trust  her.  She  and  I 
should  be  able  to  work  together.  It  is  for  a  common  end." 

"Well,  you  are  both  so  unusual  that  I  daresay  you  will. 
Though  it  could  not  be  said  of  any  other  two  women. 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

It  has  been  my  Jot  to  be  cast  with  a  strange  pair.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  give  advice,  especially  as  neither  of  you 
ever  takes  it.  I  declare  I  begin  to  couple  you  together  in 
my  mind.  Well,  good-bye,  Catherine.  I  suppose  we  shall 
meet  sometimes  in  this  new  way.  And  we  bear  each  otherno 
grudge.    I  will  do  my  best,  if  you  will  do  yours.   Goodbye." 

There  was  silence  after  he  had  gone. 

"Do  you  really  bear  him  no  grudge?"  said  Ursula. 

"I  have  no  feeling  about  him.  If  I  had,  it  could  only  be 
of  its  kind.   I  make  no  claim  to  his  sort  of  generosity." 

"So  you  do  bear  him  one,"  said  Elton.  "It  throws  light 
on  the  scene.  That  came  from  the  depths  of  human 
experience,  and  I  faced  it  to  the  end.  I  cannot  be  what  I 
thought." 

"I  kept  my  eyes  away  from  it,"  said  Ursula.  "I  did 
not  hear  more  than  1  could  help.  Cassius  is  the  man  he 
always  was." 

"He  is  not  a  man  to  me,"  said  Catherine. 

"You  are  still  a  woman  to  him,"  said  her  brother. 

"Elton,  do  not  talk  like  everyone  else,"  said  Ursula. 
"Even  Cassius  does  not  do  that." 

"I  will  tr/  not  to.  But  I  almost  wish  I  were  like  them. 
I  think  I  will  be.  Catherine,  you  wanted  to  marry  Cassius. 
Did  you  really  wish  it  from  your  heart?" 

"I  wanted  to  marry.  Many  women  do.  I  wanted  to 
have  children.  Many  women  want  that  too.  And  why 
should  they  not  want  it?  And  Cassius  offered  it  to  me. 
Does  it  need  to  be  so  much  explained?  I  am  like  everyone 
else.   There  is  the  matter  in  a  word." 

"I  wonder  what  is  bringing  out  the  worst  in  me,"  said 
Elton.  "It  is  hard  not  to  do  oneself  justice  at  such  a  time; 
one  of  those  times  that  will  stand  out  in  people's  memories. 

86 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

I  dread  the  moment  when  this  stands  out  in  yours.  And  I 
am  talking  about  myself,  when  my  every  thought  should 
be  of  you.  And  Ursula  is  putting  me  to  shame  by  one  of 
those  silences  that  say  more  than  words." 

"It  is  such  a  good  way  of  saying  it,"  said  the  latter. 

"Words  do  not  come  to  our  sister  at  these  times,"  said 
Catherine. 

"No,  she  appears  to  such  advantage." 

"I  have  hardly  realised  how  I  have  missed  you,  Elton. 
Missed  you  both." 

"I  am  used  to  being  an  afterthought,"  said  Ursula.  "I 
think  it  brings  out  my  especial  quality.  There  is  a 
peculiar  grace  in  taking  the  second  place,  and  I  think  I 
may  have  a  grace,  if  it  is  peculiar." 

"You  both  have  your  own  place  with  me,  as  you  always 
had." 

"Catherine  comes  out  of  herself  to  say  comfortable 
words  to  us,"  said  Elton.  "And  in  her  situation !  And  we 
in  ours,  that  is  hardly  one  at  all,  are  remaining  in  our- 
selves as  if  it  were  the  proper  place  to  be." 

"When  no  one  should  ever  be  there  really,"  said  Ursula. 

"You  are  both  there  less  than  most  people,"  said 
Catherine. 

"Perhaps  we  should  live  in  other  people's  lives,  if  we 
saw  them,"  said  her  brother.  "I  found  myself  living  in 
Cassius's  life  to-day.  It  really  did  seem  like  self-forgetful- 
ness." 

"I  think  that  is  more  than  can  be  expected  of  us." 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  such  a  thing,"  said  Ursula.  "It  is 
hard  to  see  how  there  can  be.  We  think  other  people 
forget  themselves  because  they  pretend  to,  and  we  assume 
they  think  it  of  us  in  the  same  way.  There  is  one  thing  to 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

be  said  for  not  surviving  after  death.  We  shall  not  know 
them  when  they  know  our  hearts,  and  when  we  know 
theirs.  The  second  would  be  the  worst." 

"I  think  I  always  know  them,"  said  Elton.  "But  I  do 
not  mind.  I  find  it  so  surprising  that  no  one  is  all  bad.  It 
seems  that  we  can  depend  on  it.  It  seems  almost  too 
much." 

"I  used  to  feel  I  knew  Cassius's  heart,"  said  Catherine. 
"And  he  did  reveal  more  of  it  than  most  of  us.  He  did  not 
seem  to  know  when  he  betrayed  himself." 

"Well,  that  would  explain  his  doing  it,"  said  Ursula. 
"Perhaps  that  is  the  difference  between  a  bad  person  and 
a  good;  that  the  one  reveals  himself,  and  the  other  has  the 
proper  feeling  to  hide  it." 

"I  shall  see  my  sons,"  said  Catherine,  standing  with 
clasped  hands.  "Cassius  does  a  thing  when  it  is  before 
him.   He  is  disturbed  until  it  is  done." 

"I  did  not  know  he  was  so  like  me,"  said  Ursula. 

"You  may  see  him  come  out  in  the  boys,"  said  Elton. 
"You  should  be  prepared." 

"I  do  not  mind  what  I  see.  I  only  ask  to  see  it.  I  can 
bear  anything  but  the  one  thing." 

"Would  you  have  agreed  to  the  conditions  if  you  had 
known  what  they  would  mean?" 

"I  saw  nothing  but  the  moment.  Just  as  now  I  see  only 
that." 

"How  fulfilled  I  do  feel!"  said  Elton.  "All  my  curiosity 
satisfied.  Even  my  questions  answered.  I  don't  think  it 
has  ever  happened  to  me  before.  I  did  not  know  it  could 
happen." 

"I  don't  think  it  can,"  said  Ursula.  "It  is  one  of  those 
things  like  Shakespeare,  that  could  never  come  again." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"The  force  of  things  carried  us  on,"  said  her  sister.  "The 
truth  came  to  the  Hght  of  itself.  Reticence  lost  its  place." 

"And  it  generally  has  so  much,  indeed  almost  all  there 
is." 

"There  is  still  a  question  to  ask,"  said  Elton,  "now  we 
feel  that  nothing  will  be  denied.  Cassius  still  has  some 
feeling  for  Catherine.  Does  he  know  it  is  unrequited?  If 
he  does  not,  it  spoils  it  all." 

"He  will  never  know,"  said  Catherine.  "In  a  way  he 
will  always  know  nothing.  And  now  you  know  enough.  I 
ought  not  to  have  made  this  demand.  I  should  have  kept 
my  life  and  myself  in  their  own  place." 

"I  cannot  bear  people  who  try  to  be  brave,"  said 
Ursula.  "There  is  the  danger  that  they  may  succeed, 
and  it  is  even  worse  than  other  kinds  of  success." 

"Courage  may  certainly  resemble  indifference." 

"It  might  almost  be  the  same,"  said  Elton.  "But  it  is 
too  commonplace  to  think  it  is.  Does  Cassius's  wife  know 
of  his  coming  here?   I  am  glad  I  am  in  time  to  ask  that." 

"I  do  not  know.   I  would  tell  you,  if  I  did." 

"How  can  we  find  out?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  am  an  unrewarding  companion.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  come  out  of  myself." 

"Well,  I  daresay  that  is  always  pretence,"  said  her  sister. 

"I  will  leave  you  now.  I  will  rest  and  let  you  do  so.  We 
shall  spend  the  evening  together.  Our  old  and  our  new 
life  will  begin." 

"Will  two  lives  be  too  much  for  us?"  said  Elton,  as  the 
door  closed.  "When  we  can  hardly  manage  one.  There  is 
something  I  must  say  to  you,  Ursula.  I  am  haunted  by  the 
thought  of  Cassius.  Beneath  that  exterior  does  there  beat 
a  faithful  heart?" 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Why  are  such  things  always  said  to  happen  beneath  an 
exterior?  What  other  place  is  there  for  them?" 

"I  think  they  would  be  less  heart-rending  anywhere 
else.  And  that  is  not  the  only  thing.  I  believe  the  iron 
has  entered  into  Catherine's  soul.  I  have  wanted  to  meet 
an  instance  of  that,  but  I  see  it  was  a  dreadful  wish.  I 
might  weep,  if  I  did  not  see  that  your  feelings  were  too 
deep  for  tears.    I  must  not  be  shallow  by  comparison." 


90 


CHAPTER   VI 

Well,  you  will  not  guess  where  I  have  been,"  said 
Cassius,  striding  across  his  drawing-room. 

"We  will  not,  my  boy,"  said  his  father.  *'We  will  hear 
you  tell  us." 

Cassius  paused  in  his  advance  as  space  failed,  and 
seemed  at  a  loss  for  further  cover. 

"I  will  guess,"  said  Flavia.  "You  have  been  to  see  your 
first  wife." 

"Yes,  well,  I  thought  I  had  better  put  my  pride  in  my 
pocket,"  said  Cassius,  putting  back  his  head  and  feeling  in 
his  pocket,  as  if  it  were  the  natural  place  for  anything 
tangible  or  otherwise.  "It  was  a  thing  to  get  behind  me. 
So  I  set  my  teeth  and  got  it  behind.  And  it  went  against 
the  grain,  I  can  tell  you.  I  had  never  imagined  myself  in 
such  a  place.  I  had  to  brace  myself  up,  as  if  I  were  going  to 
face  some  great  ordeal.  And  that  is  what  it  was.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  test  of  every  human  quality.  I  declare  I 
found  there  were  things  in  me  I  had  never  suspected.  I 
seemed  to  have  to  deal  with  a  new  self." 

"It  brought  out  your  better  side.  That  is  always  a 
difficult  thing  to  look  back  on." 

"Yes,  make  a  mock  of  it.  I  might  have  known  you  would. 
You  are  not  a  stranger  to  me.  But  it  was  not  an  easy 
thing  to  do,  Flavia.  It  was  the  most  difficult  step  I  had 
ever  taken  in  my  life.  But  I  could  hardly  leave  the  burden 
of  everything  on  a  woman.   There  is  something  in  a  man 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

that  balks  at  that.  So  I  took  the  bull  by  the  horns  and 
walked  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth.  And  now  I  am  glad  I 
did.   It  has  smoothed  the  way." " 

"So  your  better  side  is  very  good,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"Oh,  well,  yes,  perhaps.  Well,  I  suppose  there  was  an 
element  of  something  above  the  average  about  it.  These 
things  are  in  us  when  the  demand  comes.  We  find  there 
is  something  there  that  responds  to  a  call.  Otherwise  I 
don't  see  much  point  in  maintaining  a  high  moral  tone. 
I  would  rather  have  an  ordinary  person  who  could  come 
out  under  a  test,  than  one  of  your  paragons  who  say  and 
do  nothing  wrong  from  morning  to  night.  The  little, 
everyday  qualities  don't  bear  much  on  deeper  things." 

"Do  normally  well-conducted  people  fail  under  a 
trial?"  said  his  wife. 

"Oh,  I  daresay  they  do.  I  have  known  it.  And,  what  is 
more,  you  are  failing  under  one  now.  So  there  is  an  illus- 
tration. What  other  man  would  come  back  after  an 
effort  on  this  scale,  the  greatest  he  had  ever  made  in  his 
life,  and  meet  such  an  attitude  in  his  wife?  I  don't  believe 
another.  What  do  you  really  think  of  what  I  have  done? 
You  must  have  an  opinion." 

"I  think  it  may  have  been  the  best  thing.  And  I  see  it 
was  a  magnanimous  one.  But  perhaps  it  was  rather  pre- 
mature. When  did  your  first  wife  return?" 

"To-day,"  said  Cassius,  using  a  full,  easy  tone,  and 
causing  it  to  swell  as  he  proceeded.  "An  hour  or  two 
before  I  went  to  her.  I  told  you  I  took  the  bull  by  the 
horns.  What  does  that  mean,  if  not  that  I  acted  at  once? 
And  any  magnanimous  impulse — any  impulse  has  to  be 
acted  upon,  if  it  is  not  to  pass.  I  was  afraid  this  would 
pass,  I  can  tell  you,  as  I  strode  along,  trusting  it  would 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

hold  out  until  I  arrived.   I  felt  it  ebbing  away  with  every 
step.   Premature?   It  was  then  or  never." 

"It  was  decided  that  it  was  to  be  never." 

"And  the  decision  has  been  altered,  hasn't  it?  Or  that 
was  the  trend  of  things.  First  I  am  looked  on  as  a  monster 
for  keeping  a  mother  from  her  children,  and  then  there  is 
this  chill  and  hush  because  I  try  to  put  right  any  harm  I 
have  done.  What  is  the  good  of  abiding  by  mistakes? 
The  right  way  to  deal  with  them  is  to  rectify  them.  If 
they  are  to  be  sacred,  what  is  wrong  with  them?  Why  are 
they  mistakes?  And  what  is  to  happen  to  the  victims?" 

"Have  you  no  gossip,  my  boy?"  said  Mr.  Glare.  "Did 
not  Catherine  appear  or  move  or  speak?  Is  there  no 
change  in  her  after  nine  years?  Did  she  not  turn  her  eyes 
on  you?  It  was  her  way  to  do  so." 

"Well,  she  is  still  a  handsome  woman,"  said  Cassius,  in  a 
tone  of  interest  in  his  words.  "Her  hair  is  going  grey,  but 
I  think  it  suits  her;  I  should  say  it  does.  I  think  it  adds 
something  to  her  that  she  seemed  to  need.  And  an  older 
face  fits  her  personality;  it  never  added  to  her  to  be  young. 
Oh,  she  still  makes  her  own  impression.  I  was  not  ashamed 
of  once  having  seen  her  as  I  did.  As  for  that  brother  and 
sister,  I  barely  looked  at  them.  I  shook  hands  and  did  no 
more.  Indeed  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  did  that.  I  never 
liked  them,  and  I  am  not  going  to  begin.  I  can't  think  how 
she  can  have  turned  them  out  as  she  did.  I  thought  better 
of  her,  I  must  say;  well,  better  of  her  judgement." 

"They  have  the  name  of  being  clever,"  said  Flavia. 
"That  does  not  give  them  a  free  hand." 

"Doesn't  it?  I  suppose  you  know,  as  you  are  hampered 
in  that  way  yourself.  Clever?  They  may  be,  if  it  is  clever 
to  be  aloof  and  eccentric,  and  never  say  a  word  like 

93 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

anyone  else.  I  declare,  if  either  of  the  boys  took  after 
them,  it  would  be  a  grief  to  me." 

"When  do  you  wish  Catherine  to  meet  them?"  said  his 
wife,  in  an  even  tone. 

"Oh,  it  is  'Catherine'  now,  is  it?  In  what  spirit  is  that 
said?" 

"I  must  call  her  something.  What  would  you  suggest?" 

"I  suggest  nothing.  You  will  decide  for  yourself.  You 
never  take  my  suggestions;  so  why  ask  me  for  them?" 

"I  will  take  one  in  this  case,  if  you  will  make  it." 

"Well,  I  will  not.  I  have  none  to  make,  as  you  know. 
You  are  only  trying  to  harass  me." 

"I  must  arrange  for  them  to  meet  in  privacy  and  peace. 
It  is  a  matter  that  needs  thought." 

"So  it  is,  my  dear;  so  it  does,"  said  Cassius,  loudly. 
"And  thank  you  for  giving  it.  Thank  you  for  doing  your 
best  for  me.  Thank  you  for  always  having  done  it.  It 
smoothes  this  piece  of  awkward  road  for  me,  to  have  you  at 
my  side  as  a  support.  It  is  a  queer  sort  of  position  for  a 
man,  to  have  to  depend  on  one  wife  to  help  him  deal  v/ith 
another.  I  declare  I  could  laugh  when  I  think  of  it." 
Cassius  proved  his  words.  "And  I  can't  quite  see  how  I 
have  got  into  it.  It  does  not  seem  to  fit  me  somehow.  I 
should  have  thought  I  should  go  through  life  in  an 
ordinary,  humdrum  way,  and  here  I  am  situated  as  no 
man  has  been  before  or  since." 

"It  was  parting  the  mother  and  sons  that  led  you  to  it," 
said  Mr.  Clare.   "But  you  see  it,  and  the  matter  ends." 

"Then  I  am  sure  I  hope  it  will  do  so.  I  am  tired  of  this 
veiled  carping  and  criticism,  when  I  am  trying  to  rise  to 
the  best  that  is  in  me.  It  needs  an  effort,  I  can  tell  you; 
and  it  does  not  do  much  to  help  a  man,  to  have  his  wife 

94 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

and  his  father  ranging  themselves  against  him,  as  if  they 
were  part  of  the  hostile  world.  He  is  prepared  for  the  malice 
of  mankind,  but  he  looks  for  something  else  from  them." 

"It  sounds  as  if  your  best  was  a  good  deal  above  your 
ordinary  level." 

"And  so  it  is.  And  so  is  yours.  And  so  is  everyone's.  Of 
course  I  know  it  is.  The  effort  one  has  to  make,  shows  that. 
I  only  hope  to  be  able  to  maintain  it  until  the  end.  And 
now  what  is  the  end  to  be?  We  must  think  of  that. 
Would  it  be  best  to  ask  Catherine  to  a  meal  in  an  ordinary, 
open  way?  It  would  seem  more  natural  and  less  suggestive 
somehow." 

"What  of  her  meeting  with  her  boys?"  said  his  father. 
"Are  our  eyes  to  be  on  that?" 

"Well,  it  has  to  be  got  through  somehow.  I  don't  know 
that  they  want  to  have  it  in  a  veil  of  darkness  and  mystery. 
Our  being  there  might  ease  it  for  them." 

"It  would  be  a  simple  way  to  help,"  said  Flavia. 

"Yes,  be  ironic  about  it.  I  meant  it  in  all  good  faith. 
It  might  be  the  only  way  to  do  so.  And  I  don't  think 
sarcasm  is  quite  the  thing  for  the  moment." 

"You  want  to  see  the  meeting,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 
"And  we  see  your  reasons;  it  will  be  a  human  scene;  too 
much  so  for  your  wife  and  me.  But  what  of  the  people 
most  concerned?  Would  they  not  choose  something  else?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  Catherine  has  much  choice  in  the 
matter.  She  wants  to  meet  her  sons ;  the  sooner  the  better, 
in  public  or  in  private;  it  is  all  the  same.  The  main  thing 
is  the  whole  thing,  if  you  understand  me.  There  would  be 
no  trouble  there." 

"But  we  must  do  our  best  for  her,"  said  Flavia.  "We  have 
accepted  her  view  and  must  act  in  accordance  with  it." 

95 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  have  the  meeting  in  privacy  then.  Shut  them  all 
up  together  and  leave  them  to  work  on  each  other,  so  that 
none  of  them  is  ever  the  same  again.  I  am  sure  Guy  will 
not  be.  If  that  is  human  kindness,  have  it  like  that.  Of 
course  your  feeling  for  the  boys  is  not  that  of  a  real  mother. 
I  see  it  could  not  be.   And  I  see  that  it  is  not." 

*'I  w^onder  what  is  best  for  all  of  them,"  said  Flavia,  in  a 
detached  tone. 

"I  do  not  wonder.  I  have  told  you  my  view.  But  I  will 
not  interfere.  I  will  stand  aside  and  see  mystery  made, 
and  suggestions  set  on  foot,  and  the  boys'  first  impression  of 
their  mother  constrained  and  spoiled.  It  is  a  strange  thing 
to  want  to  besmirch.  Upon  my  word  I  should  have  shrunk 
from  such  an  ordeal  when  I  was  a  boy.  And  I  have  always 
thought  of  Guy  as  a  more  sensitive  creature  than  myself." 

"Well,  what  do  you  actually  suggest?" 

"I  do  not  suggest  anything.  I  know  better  than  to  do 
so.  And  I  have  already  made  my  suggestion.  I  assumed 
that  there  would  be  luncheon  as  usual,  and  that  Catherine 
would  come  to  it  in  a  normal  way,  and  the  children  join 
us  later,  as  they  always  do.  Then  everything  would  be 
simple  and  above-board,  and  no  one  would  suffer.  I  hate 
the  thought  of  unnecessary  suffering  myself.  And  the 
mother  and  sons  could  be  alone  together  afterwards. 
Does  not  that  cover  the  ground?" 

"You  make  your  case,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"I  suppose  it  does,"  said  Flavia.  "In  a  sense,  of  course 
it  does.  But  is  Catherine  to  wait  until  after  the  meal  to 
see  the  boys?  Is  she  to  sit  through  an  hour  in  suspense? 
We  should  do  better  for  her  than  that." 

"Well,  let  the  boys  come  to  luncheon.  What  is  the  objec- 
tion there?   Surely  that  takes  in  everything." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"We  can  hardly  say  it  does  not." 

"You  are  making  an  occasion  for  yourself,  my  boy,"  said 
I  Mr.  Clare.   "And  I  don't  say  you  deserve  nothing." 

"Well,  and  if  I  am,"  said  Cassius,  half-laughing,  "I  see 

I  no  harm  in  it.    I  am  sure  we  have  one  seldom  enough. 

!  But  my  real  object  is  to  have  this  thing  go  through  with 

the  least  possible  strain,   for  you  and  for  me  and  for 

Flavia  and  Catherine  and  everyone.    And  for  the  boys 

most  of  all.    What  is  there  to  criticise  in  that?    Why 

should  we  mouth  and  murmur  over  it,  as  though  some- 

.  thing  discreditable  were  involved?" 

"Well,  will  you  suggest  it  to  Catherine?"  said  his  wife. 
"Why  cannot  you  write  an  invitation  in  the  ordinary 
way?  What  is  the  reason  for  making  any  difference? 
There  is  nothing  abnormal  about  the  occasion.  We  are 
simply  asking  a  woman  to  luncheon,  who  happens  to 
have  been  involved  in  my  life.   That  is  all  it  is." 

"Well,  it  is  that  amongst  other  things,"  said  his  father. 
"She  may  answer  that  she  wishes  to  see  her  boys  alone," 
said  Flavia.   "It  is  what  I  should  do  in  her  place." 

"But  she  will  not,  I  tell  you.  Don't  you  listen  to  a  word 
I  say?  You  and  she  are  not  the  same.  God  knows  I  under- 
stand you  both.  She  wishes  to  see  her  sons,  and  nothing 
else  counts  with  her.  She  does  not  mind  how  or  where. 
That  came  through  firm  and  clear.  You  see  I  know  her 
well.  Indeed  it  was  extraordinary  how  things  came  back 
to  me.  All  her  little  words  and  ways  seemed  to  fit  into 
their  place  as  if  we  had  parted  yesterday.  Or  rather  as  if 
we  had  parted  when  we  were  still  on  terms,  you  know. 
And  to  think  that  it  is  nine  years,  and  that  the  three 
younger  children  have  been  born  since!  Well,  how  life 
goes  by!" 

97 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"So  it  does,"  said  Mr.  Clare.  "Mine  has  almost  done 
so." 

"I  dread  the  effect  of  this  meeting  on  the  boys,"  said 
Flavia.  "It  is  coming  at  the  wrong  age.  They  are  at  once 
too  old  and  too  young." 

"Well,  we  can't  help  that,"  said  her  husband.  "Just 
prepare  them  for  it,  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary  thing.  They 
will  soon  adapt  themselves." 

"I  see  that  you  do  not  know  them." 

"And  I  see  that  you  do  not  know  me.  I  am  always 
seeing  it.  You  are  too  busy  admiring  yourself  to  have  any 
admiration  left  over." 

"So  knowledge  of  you  could  only  result  in  one  feeling?" 

"Oh,  well,  what  do  you  say?  Well,  in  what  feeling? 
Oh,  well,  yes,  you  would  take  that  line.  Well,  it  might 
result  in  it.  Or  I  think  it  might  in  this  case.  I  do  think 
there  are  things  in  me,  that  you  don't  recognise,  Flavia. 
Just  as  no  doubt  there  are  things  in  you  that  I  don't.  But  I 
recognise  a  good  deal.   God  knows  I  do." 

"Perhaps  you  read  it  in.   That  is  an  easy  thing  to  do." 

"Not  for  me.  That  isn't  in  my  line.  I  only  see  what  I 
can't  help  seeing.  I  don't  want  to  see  anything  more.  I 
am  sure  I  don't.  I  guard  myself  against  it.  I  don't  want 
to  know  what  is  below  the  surface.  It  is  advisable  not  to 
know  it;  I  have  found  that.  And  now  about  this  letter 
that  has  to  be  written.   Ought  we  to  make  a  draft?" 

"Not  if  it  is  to  be  just  an  ordinary  invitation.  There 
should  be  no  need.  I  suppose  I  address  her  as  'Mrs.  Clare'  ?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  do.  It  seems  rather  odd,  somehow. 
And  she  will  have  to  call  you  the  same.  So  there  will  be 
two  Mrs.  Clares  at  the  table.   I  might  keep  a  harem." 

"Well,  not  so  much  of  one,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

98 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"No,  well,  I  suppose  not.  Well,  I  suppose  I  shall 
manage  between  them.  I  don't  call  either  of  them  that; 
that  is  one  thing." 

"And  a  thing  that  will  dispose  of  any  problem,"  said 
his  wife. 

"And  how  about  the  children?  Well,  they  don't 
call  either  of  you  that  either.  But  what  will  they  call 
Catherine?" 

"Her  own  boys  will  call  her  'Mother'.  It  is  what  they 
always  called  her.  Fabian  may  just  remember.  The  little 
ones  will  not  use  a  name." 

"Yes,  that  is  why  you  were  dubbed  'Mater'.  I  remem- 
ber now.  And  I  remember  wondering  why  you  liked  it. 
It  did  not  seem  to  suit  you  somehow." 

"I  did  not  like  it.  It  did  not  suit  me.  It  does  not  now. 
But  the  name,  'Mother',  was  given.  It  belonged  to  some- 
one else.   I  did  not  take  what  was  not  mine." 

"I  remember;  I  do  remember,  Flavia.  And  I  remember 
how  you  sunk  yourself  in  other  people  and  forgot  your  own 
claims.  And  I  appreciated  it,  my  dear;  and  I  have 
appreciated  it  ever  since.  It  is  the  foundation  of  our  life 
together.  Whatever  else  has  been  between  us,  we  have 
that." 

"Do  you  wish  the  letter  to  go  to-day?" 

"I  don't  wish  anything  about  it,"  said  Cassius,  sitting 
down  and  throwing  one  leg  over  the  other,  as  if  threatened 
by  exhaustion.  "But,  as  I  told  you,  Catherine  wishes  it, 
and  it  is  she  you  are  so  concerned  for.  And  if  you  had 
seen  her  all  keyed-up  and  tragic,  you  would  not  keep  her 
waiting  a  moment  longer  than  you  could  help.  No  one 
would,  who  had  a  human  heart." 

"It  is  you  who  have  kept  her  waiting  for  nine  years," 

99 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

said  Flavia,  going  to  the  desk.    "She  need  not  wait  much 
longer." 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  what  a  mean  speech!"  said 
Cassius,  looking  at  her  back.  "Of  all  human  meannesses 
give  me  that  of  a  good  woman.  And  when  I  say  a  good 
woman,  I  mean  what  I  say.  Well,  what  can  we  do  to 
hurry  things?    Shall  I  leave  the  letter  at  the  house?" 

"No,  that  would  be  showing  too  much  zest,"  said  his 
father.   "It  is  not  a  case  for  an  excess  of  it." 

"Simon  can  take  it,"  said  Flavia. 

"And  w^ait  for  an  answer?"  said  her  husband. 

"I  hardly  think  there  is  any  need  for  that." 

"Too  much  zest  again?  But,  as  I  told  you,  if  you  had 
seen  that  woman,  you  would  share  my  feeling.  You  would 
not  expect  me  to  consider  what  was  due  to  myself.  If 
you  are  what  people  think  you,  you  would  be  shocked  by 
it.  You  would  not  worry  about  zest.  It  is  not  a  case  for 
being  concerned  with  convention.  I  declare  I  can't  get 
her  face  out  of  my  head.   It  keeps  coming  back  to  me." 

"Well,  Simon  can  wait  for  the  answer." 

"You  are  a  good  woman,  Flavia,  a  woman  sound  at 
heart,  if  ever  there  was  one.  Your  heart  goes  out  to 
another  woman  in  distress.  You  have  no  feeling  about  her 
coming  to  share  your  place.   You  are  above  it." 

"Surely  she  will  hardly  be  doing  that." 

"Well,  we  shall  have  her  coming  here,  or  the  boys  going 
there,  or  something  of  the  kind  happening.  If  there  is  to 
be  this  change,  it  wall  have  to  be  managed  somehow.  I 
don't  see  any  way  out  of  it." 

"I  did  not  know  the  change  was  to  involve  so  much.  I 
understood  there  was  to  be  a  meeting,  and  I  assumed  it 
would  be  repeated  at  intervals,  but  not  at  frequent  ones." 

ICO 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Oh,  you  assumed  that,  did  you?  That  is  the  know- 
ledge of  human  nature  of  which  you  have  so  much !  If 
I  have  any  myself,  the  meetings  will  recur  pretty  often. 
What  would  you  expect?" 

"I  expected  what  I  said." 

"Well,  I  expect  something  different.  I  have  my  own 
knowledge  of  life,  and  no  mother  who  has  been  parted 
from  her  sons  and  then  had  them  restored  to  her,  would 
tolerate  seeing  them  so  seldom.  It  is  not  in  human  nature. 
You  must  know  that.   You  are  a  mother  yourself." 

"To  her  children  as  well  as  mine,  Cassius.  It  is  the  risk 
to  them  that  troubles  me.  They  cannot  have  two  mothers." 

"So  that  is  what  it  has  come  to.  I  have  heard  you  say 
the  opposite.  It  seems  that  is  what  they  will  have.  But 
there  is  surely  no  danger  in  it.  The  more  mothers,  the 
better,  surely.  We  can't  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing." 

"The  usual  suggestion  is  that  we  can." 

"Well,  then  they  will  have  it.  But  it  is  better  than  too 
little.  It  is  a  fault  on  the  right  side.  We  must  leave  the 
future  to  itself." 

"It  holds  more  problems  than  you  realise." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it,  can  I?  I  am  sure  I  cannot  solve 
them.  I  shall  just  let  things  take  their  course.  And  if  you 
are  guided  by  me,  you  will  do  the  same.  And  you  are 
guided  by  me  more  often  than  you  think,  Flavia.  I  am 
not  such  a  nonentity  in  my  own  house.  I  often  find  my 
influence  working  and  having  its  result.  Though  no  one 
would  acknowledge  it.  Oh,  no,  I  should  not  expect  that. 
But  it  remains  that  I  am  the  head  of  the  family,  and  that 
must  mean  something.  Take  the  example  of  this  last 
decision.   Who  really  made  it,  you  or  I?" 

"You  had  your  own  way,"  said  his  wife. 

lOI 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  what  is  that  but  the  same  thing  in  other  words? 
If  I  carry  my  point,  my  advice  is  taken;  there  is  no  way 
out  of  it.  And  here  we  have  the  answer  to  the  letter.  It  is 
a  good  thing  the  boy  was  told  to  wait.  That  was  a  good 
idea  of  yours,  Flavia.  Well,  I  wonder  what  Catherine 
says.  It  is  odd,  but  I  have  a  queer  sort  of  feeling  of 
suspense." 

"She  will  come,"  said  his  wife,  laying  down  the  letter. 

"Oh,  will  she?"  said  Cassius,  coming  up  and  taking  it. 
"I  may  read  it,  I  suppose?  Well,  of  course  I  may;  it  is 
written  to  us  both;  it  is  written  to  me  more  than  to  you 
really.  Oh,  it  is  just  a  formal  acceptance  in  the  usual 
terms." 

"Well,  what  else  should  it  be?"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"The  invitation  was  put  in  those  terms,"  said  Flavia. 

"Yes,  well,  I  suppose  it  was.  You  could  not  be  expected 
to  use  any  others,  to  show  too  much  zest,  as  you  would 
say.  It  is  odd  how  her  writing  comes  back  to  me.  I  might 
have  seen  it  yesterday.  I  generally  forget  writings,  and  I 
don't  think  I  saw  it  very  much." 

"I  think  it  is  natural  that  you  should  remember  it." 

"Yes,  well,  I  suppose  it  is.  I  daresay  she  would  re- 
member mine,  though  she  saw  it  even  less.  I  don't  often 
seem  to  write  things,  somehow.  So  it  is  at  luncheon  to- 
morrow that  she  will  be  here.  And  it  is  fourteen  years 
since  she  came  here  first.  What  a  thing  it  is  to  look  back 
on  the  past!" 

"A  different  thing  for  us  all,"  said  his  father. 

"Yes,  well,  I  suppose  it  is.  All  men  have  their  ex- 
perience. And  all  women  too,  though  we  tend  to  forget 
that.  So  she  took  the  first  day  that  offered.  She  can't  be 
unwilling  to  come.    How  did  you  put  the  invitation?" 

1 02 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

*'I  gave  her  the  choice  of  several  days,"  said  Flavia. 

"And  she  took  the  first.  Well,  I  was  prepared  for  that. 
But  she  can't  feel  any  reluctance  to  darken  these  doors. 
You  might  almost  say  she  was  showing  zest." 

"She  is  coming  to  see  her  sons.  There  is  no  sign  of  any 
other  purpose.   You  realised  her  eagerness  to  see  them." 

"Yes,  so  I  did.  I  read  her  mind.  I  seemed  to  see  right 
into  it  somehow.  I  sometimes  find  myself  doing  that. 
Somebody's  mind  will  lie  right  open  before  me.  It  is  odd 
how  we  have  these  little  individual  powers.  I  suppose 
that  is  one  of  mine." 

"It  might  be  a  dangerous  one,"  said  his  wife. 

"Yes,  in  the  wrong  hands.  We  have  to  remember  what 
is  vested  in  us.   It  is  a  sort  of  trust." 

"What  of  your  plans  for  to-morrow?"  said  his  father. 
"You  will  be  wise  to  give  your  minds  to  them.  How  will 
you  sit  at  the  table?   There  should  be  no  uncertainty." 

"Cassius  and  I  in  our  usual  places,"  said  Flavia.  "And 
Catherine  opposite  to  you,  with  the  boys  on  either  side  of 
her." 

"Yes,  well,  she  can't  sit  in  her  usual  place,"  said  Cassius, 
with  a  little  laugh.  "In  her  old  place,  I  mean.  But  it  will 
be  the  first  time  she  has  sat  at  the  side  of  the  table  in  this 
house.  I  wonder  if  she  will  think  of  it." 

"She  will  probably  be  thinking  of  other  things,"  said 
Flavia.  "She  certainly  will,  if  you  are  right  in  your 
account  of  her." 

"Well,  my  impression  was  what  I  told  you.  As  I  said,  it 
all  seemed  quite  clear.  But  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  a 
thought  of  it  goes  through  her  mind." 

"It  would  hardly  be  more  than  that." 

"No,  well,  I  suppose  not.    I  expect  I  was  right  in  my 

103 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

impression.  Well,  I  wish  the  occasion  was  over.  It  gives 
mc  an  odd,  unsettled  feeling.  I  never  thought  to  sit  at 
the  head  of  my  board,  with  one  wife  opposite  to  me,  and 
another  at  my  side.  Well,  I  suppose  I  had  my  ways  with 
women  when  I  was  young.  It  seems  that  I  must  have, 
though  I  did  not  give  much  thought  to  it.  It  has  never 
been  my  habit  to  turn  my  eyes  on  myself.  I  just  went  on 
in  my  natural  way." 

"As  you  continue  to  do,"  said  his  father. 

"Well,  I  wonder  how  the  situation  will  develop.  I 
can't  help  wondering  how  it  will  grow  and  spread,  and 
make  a  difference  in  all  our  lives." 

"To  a  certain  extent,"  said  his  wife.  "Probably  to  a 
great  and  growing  extent.   It  is  too  soon  to  say." 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  thought.  You  see  how  we  really 
take  the  same  view.  We  do  that  more  often  than  you 
realise.  Well,  I  am  glad  the  occasion  is  upon  us.  The 
longer  it  is  postponed,  the  oftener  I  shall  live  it  in  my 
mind.  Catherine  coming  into  this  room!  Well,  I  have 
seen  that  often  enough.  And  I  was  glad  enough  not  to  see 
it  any  more  at  one  time.    I  can  tell  you  that  I  was." 

"It  is  not  our  moment.  It  is  hers  and  her  sons'.  I  wish 
we  could  keep  apart  from  it.  As  you  know,  I  would  have 
arranged  to  do  so." 

"Well,  you  came  round  to  my  view  in  the  end.  As  I  say, 
you  often  do.  And  we  could  not  keep  aloof  beyond  a 
point.  We  shall  have  to  countenance  the  new  condition 
of  things.  Well,  I  shan't  be  able  to  help  picturing  the 
scene.  You  see,  to  me  it  is  not  the  same  as  it  is  to  you.  To 
me  it  is  the  last  of  many." 

"And  to  us  all  the  first  of  many  more,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 


104 


CHAPTER   VII 

Is  IT  permitted  to  be  glad  to  see  you  again,  ma'am?" 

"It  is  kind  of  you,  Ainger.  You  are  very  little  changed." 

"It  can  seem  as  if  an  intervening  chapter  had  not  been 
written,  ma'am." 

"It  may  for  the  moment,"  said  Catherine. 

"As  you  say,  it  is  erroneous,  ma'am." 

Ainger  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room  with  a  silent 
tread,  and  withdrew  without  making  an  announcement. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  treat  the  occasion  as  a  normal 
one. 

"Well,  Catherine,  so  here  we  all  are  before  you,"  said 
Gassius,  coming  forward.  "You  can  form  your  own 
judgement  of  everything.  It  is  all  open  to  your  eyes. 
There  has  been  no  preparation  for  your  coming.  There 
is  nothing  to  hide." 

His  words  died  away  as  he  ended.  It  seemed  they 
would  have  been  better  not  said.  The  scene  did  not  need 
his  direction;  it  would  take  its  own  course. 

Catherine  advanced  with  her  quick,  short  steps,  greeted 
her  hosts  without  glancing  at  her  sons,  and  turned  and 
embraced  them,  with  her  eyes  going  openly  over  their 
faces.  When  she  gave  them  her  second  glance,  she  was 
careful  to  give  an  equal  moment  to  each.  She  sat  down 
with  their  hands  in  hers,  but  released  them  as  though 
fearing  to  be  burdensome.  Mr.  Clare  and  Flavia  kept  their 
eyes  from  the  scene.   Cassius  stood  with  his  on  the  ground^ 

105 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

but  now  and  then  raised  them  and  surveyed  it.  Not  a 
word  was  said;  it  seemed  that  no  one  could  speak.  A 
chance  movement  made  a  sound  and  brought  reUef. 

Aingcr  announced  luncheon  in  a  low  tone,  that  sug- 
gested it  was  an  unsuitable  necessity  of  the  occasion.  The 
move  to  the  dining-room  seemed  at  once  a  liberation  and 
an  exposure.  Cassius  gave  some  directions  in  his  usual 
tones,  and  Guy  looked  up  as  if  startled  by  them.  Catherine 
sat  between  her  sons,  and  remained  calm  and  aloof,  as  if 
she  were  already  satisfied.  When  they  were  questioned 
about  their  meal,  she  hardly  looked  at  them,  leaving  the 
matter  to  their  stepmother. 

"Well,  this  is  the  first  time  the  boys  have  joined  us  at 
luncheon,"  said  Cassius. 

"It  is  time  they  did  so,"  said  his  father.  "It  ought  to 
have  entered  our  minds." 

"What  does  their  own  mother  think?"  said  Cassius,  in 
a  tone  of  taking  a  step  that  would  have  to  be  taken. 

"I  have  not  the  experience  that  would  enable  me  to 
judge,"  said  Catherine. 

"Flavia  is  a  sound  arbiter  of  such  things." 

Catherine's  silence  somehow  gave  full  consent. 

"Now  do  you  find  them  much  altered  after  all  these 
years  r 

"As  much  as  I  thought  to  find  them.  I  should  have 
recognised  Fabian.   Guy  was  only  two  when  I  left." 

"Well,  they  have  not  wanted  a  mother,"  said  Cassius, 
more  loudly.  "Have  you  ever  wanted  a  mother,  boys? 
Can  you  honestly  say  you  have  felt  any  lack  in  your 
lives?" 

"We  have  always  wanted  one  in  a  way,"  said  Fabian, 
rising  in  his  turn  to  an  effort  that  was  before  him.    "We 

1 06 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

always  knew  we  hadn't  one.   Mater  always  let  us  know. 
But  she  has  been  the  same  to  all  of  us." 

"She  has  indeed.  That  is  a  thing  that  does  not  need 
saying,  and  that  you  are  right  to  say." 

"I  used  to  wonder,  when  I  first  knew  about  things,  if  she 
would  get  tired  of  it.   But  she  never  did." 

"Now  there  is  a  tribute,  Flavia.  What  woman  could  ask 
more  than  that?" 

Flavia  heard  her  husband  with  her  eyes  down. 

"But  that  kind  of  stepmother  makes  you  wonder  about 
a  real  mother,"  said  Fabian. 

Catherine  also  looked  down  and  silence  followed. 

"Well,  Catherine,  how  about  your  brother  and  sister?" 
said  Cassius.    "Do  you  find  much  change  in  them?" 

"No,  very  little.  They  are  nine  years  older  and  nothing 
more." 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  thought.  Nine  years  older  and 
nothing  more,"  said  Cassius,  somehow  giving  the  words 
another  meaning. 

A  faint  sound  of  amusement  came  from  Fabian,  and 
Catherine  smiled  at  him  and  looked  away. 

"I  declare  he  is  like  you,  Catherine,"  said  Cassius.  "I 
caught  it  at  that  moment  when  you  both  smiled.  There 
was  a  definite  flash  of  resemblance." 

"You  used  to  say  we  were  alike.  I  could  even  see  it 
myself   And  I  think  I  see  it  now." 

"And  Guy?   Do  you  see  any  likeness  in  him?" 

"No.   Neither  to  you  nor  to  me." 

Flavia  looked  up  at  the  coupling  of  the  words. 

"I  suppose  some  ancestor  accounts  for  him,"  said 
Cassius.  "There  is  a  portrait  in  the  hall  that  is  like  both 
him  and  Tobias,  our  youngest  boy." 

107 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  see  likenesses  in  all  of  them  to  their  parents  and  each 
other,"  said  Flavia. 

"Yes,  my  wife  is  a  great  person  for  giving  equal  atten- 
tion to  all.  What  is  done  for  one,  is  done  for  the  rest.  You 
can  be  sure  of  that." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Catherine. 

"Now  what  about  the  question  of  Fabian's  going  to 
school?  We  feel  he  is  getting  too  old  for  this  life  at  home. 
So  he  is  only  to  have  another  year  of  it." 

"I  did  not  know  there  had  been  any  question." 

"It  does  not  sound  as  if  there  had,"  said  Flavia. 

"A  year  is  a  long  time,"  said  Guy. 

Catherine  looked  up,  arrested  by  something  in  the  tone. 

"Could  they  not  go  together?" 

"I  fear  they  could  not,"  said  Flavia.  "There  are  two 
years  between  them." 

"Would  not  anything  be  better  than  a  parting?" 

"Nothing  would  be  worse  than  a  breach  of  convention," 
said  Cassius.   "You  don't  know  a  boy's  world." 

"No,  I  do  not,"  said  Catherine. 

Guy  looked  from  his  mother  to  his  stepmother,  and  in  a 
moment  looked  again. 

"Well,  Guy,  are  you  weighing  the  difference  between 
them?"  said  Cassius,  in  a  tone  that  somehow  addressed 
the  company.  "You  are  a  fortunate  boy  to  have  two 
mothers.  So  far  from  having  less  than  other  boys,  you 
have  twice  as  much." 

A  faint  laugh  from  Catherine  seemed  to  carry  a  load  of 
memories. 

"Well,  that  was  the  line  of  the  boy's  thought.  And  I 
declare  he  sets  us  an  example.  He  is  behaving  in  a  natural 
manner,  and  I  don't  blame  him.  We  cannot  go  on  in  this 

1 08 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

Stilted  fashion,  behaving  as  if  we  had  something  to  be 
ashamed  of.  It  gives  a  false  impression  of  our  family  Hfe, 
and  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  the  boys  have  been 
brought  up.  Now,  Fabian,  can  you  honestly  say  that  this 
is  our  usual  situation?" 

"No,  but  the  thing  that  is  happening  is  not  usual." 

"And  you  think  it  justifies  the  change?" 

"Well,  I  think  it  makes  it  natural." 

"And  what  do  you  think,  Guy?" 

"I  think  it  does  too." 

"Ah,  it  is  a  great  occasion  for  you.  A  unique  moment  in 
your  lives.  A  great  many  people  live  and  die  without  an 
experience  on  this  scale.  You  will  be  able  to  think  and 
talk  of  it  when  you  are  a  man." 

"I  don't  expect  we  shall  ever  talk  of  it,  except  to  each 
other,"  said  Guy,  with  tears  in  his  voice. 

"Now  whatever  is  it?"  said  his  father.  "He  is  a  strange 
child,  Catherine.  One  never  knows  what  is  in  his  mind. 
Do  you  know  what  it  is,  Fabian?" 

"He  doesn't  know  which  mother  he  belongs  to  most. 
He  doesn't  know  which  he  should  like  the  best.  He  can 
never  be  sure  about  things." 

"Oh,  that  is  it,  is  it?  That  is  it,  my  poor  Uttle  son. 
Come  to  your  father,"  said  Cassius,  drawing  the  boy  to 
his  side  and  continuing  with  his  arm  about  him.  "Father 
knows  what  you  feel.  But  things  will  settle  themselves. 
You  need  not  worry  about  them.  Just  take  your  feelings 
as  they  come.  They  will  alter  and  take  their  shape.  You 
are  not  responsible  for  them.   Take  each  day  by  itself." 

"There  are  so  many  days,"  said  Guy. 

"But  only  one  at  a  time.  'Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof.  You  must  remember  that.  Well,  what  have 

109 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

I  said  now?  What  is  there  for  you  all  to  hiugh  at?  I 
shall  be  atiaid  to  open  my  mouth.  And  that  will  be  a 
pity,  as  it  seems  that  no  one  else  can  do  so." 

"Two  mothers  should  be  sufficient  for  any  day,"  said 
Flavia,  "when  it  is  the  usual  provision  for  two  lifetimes." 

"Well,  I  can't  tell  you  which  to  like  the  better,  my  boy," 
said  Cassius,  relinquishing  his  son.  "Not  even  Father  can 
do  that.  Just  love  them  in  different  ways;  that  is  my 
advice." 

"You  love  Mater  better,"  said  Catherine,  in  a  low  tone. 
"Because  she  is  the  mother  you  know.  Because  she  will 
always  be  the  mother  you  knew  first." 

"Yes,  I  do  now.   But  perhaps  I  shall  get  to  know  you." 

"Take  each  day  as  it  comes,"  said  his  father  again. 
"That  is  the  only  thing." 

"Guy  could  never  do  that,"  said  Fabian. 

"And  neither  could  I,"  said  Flavia.  "Life  is  not  a 
matter  of  days.   Each  one  is  a  part  of  the  whole." 

"W^ell,  everyone  knows  that,"  said  her  husband.  "Why 
state  such  a  thing  as  if  it  were  a  philosophic  truth?" 

"The  separate  days,  rooted  in  the  past,  carrying  the 
future,"  said  Catherine,  as  if  to  herself. 

Guy  looked  again  from  her  to  Flavia,  and  the  latter 
caught  his  eye  and  gave  him  a  smile.  He  relaxed  with  a 
sigh,  and  Catherine  saw  the  interplay  and  smiled  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"Well,  it  seems  a  happy  occasion  enough,"  said  Cassius, 
with  his  eyes  on  them.  "  I  don't  see  anything  sad  or  sinister 
about  it.   Does  anyone?   Do  you,  Fabian?" 

"No,  but  I  think  it  ought  to  have  a  description  of  its 
own." 

"Well,  how  would  you  describe  it?" 

no 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  it  is  one  I  have  always  imagined.  And  it  does 
what  we  wanted  for  us.  We  are  getting  to  know.  ..." 

"Mother,"  said  Flavia,  in  a  full,  kind  tone.  "That  is 
what  you  will  call  her.  It  is  what  you  called  her  from  the 
first.  That  is  why  I  was  called  'Mater',  if  you  remember." 

"We  do  remember,  my  dear,"  said  Gassius.  "And  it 
has  become  a  title  of  honour  for  you.  We  all  recognise 
it." 

"Is  it  better  to  be  called  'Mother'  than  'Mater'?"  said 
Guy. 

"Which  would  you  choose?"  said  his  stepmother. 

"Well,  they  both  mean  the  same  thing.  I  think 'Mater'.' 

"That  has  the  meaning  for  him,"  said  Gatherine. 

"Which  would  be  your  choice,  Fabian?"  said  his  father. 

"It  would  depend  on  what  was  the  custom.  It  is  that 
that  makes  the  difference." 

"Yes,  it  is  that,"  said  Gatherine. 

"But  your  sacrifice  is  not  wasted,  Flavia,"  said  Gassius, 
loudly.  "No  honest  sacrifice  ever  is.  It  has  its  own 
meaning  for  you,  and  so  for  other  people." 

"I  doubt  if  the  one  follows  from  the  other.  It  seems  to 
me  that  it  may  be  wasted.   But  it  was  not  very  great." 

"But  it  was  nagging  and  insistent,"  said  Gassius,  in  a 
tone  that  seemed  to  fit  his  words.  "Striking  you  where  it 
made  you  shrink  and  shiver,  at  every  turn !  But  it  won 
you  your  husband's  gratitude." 

"Fabian  remembered  his  mother.  Some  decision  had 
to  be  made.   I  daresay  it  was  the  right  one." 

"It  was,  my  dear,  it  was;  the  one  that  took  no  account 
of  yourself.   That  is  always  the  right  one." 

"I  remember  her  now,"  said  Fabian.  "As  she  was  when 
I  first  knew  her,  or  as  I  thought  she  was." 

Ill 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  well,  the  years  have  gone  by  since  then,"  said 
Cassius.  "Look  at  the  difference  they  have  made  in  you. 
They  can't  pass  over  other  people.  They  have  not  passed 
over  your  lather." 

There  were  sounds  outside  the  door  of  the  approach  of 
the  younger  children.  After  the  interval  necessary  for 
Eliza  to  set  Toby  down  and  insist  on  his  entrance,  it 
opened  to  admit  them.  Henry  and  Megan,  with  an  air  of 
following  directions,  came  up  and  shook  hands  with 
Catherine.   Toby  stood  still  and  surveyed  her. 

"Shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Clare,"  said  Cassius. 

"No,"  said  his  son. 

"Is  she  Mrs.  Clare?"  said  Henry. 

"You  heard  what  was  said,"  said  his  grandfather. 

"I  thought  Mater  was  that." 

"So  now  you  know  the  whole,  my  boy." 

"Father  and  Henry  both  'my  boy',"  said  Toby. 

"Come,  do  what  Father  tells  you,"  said  Cassius. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Toby  into  space,  making  a 
movement  of  shaking  hands. 

There  was  some  mirth,  and  he  appeared  to  search  his 
memory. 

"Qjaite  well.  Thank  you.  Fine  day,"  he  said,  and 
turned  and  looked  at  Catherine. 

"Lady,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  suggestion,  and  turned  away. 

"Ought  he  not  to  do  as  he  is  told?"  said  Cassius. 

"He  ought  to  be  what  he  is,"  said  Catherine. 

"Ah,  you  missed  those  stages  in  your  children, 
Catherine.  That  is  what  you  are  thinking  of.  I  can  read 
your  mind  like  a  book.  It  lies  open  before  me.  But  they 
have  wanted  for  nothing.  You  could  have  done  no  more 
for  them." 

112 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  could  have  had  more  from  them." 

"Well,  well,  that  can't  be  helped  now.  You  must  just 
forget  it." 

"Forget  it?"  said  Catherine,  just  audibly. 

"Now  they  are  older,  they  have  more  need  of  you." 

"I  have  need  of  them.   I  must  be  on  my  guard." 

"Well,  let  them  speak  for  themselves.  Now,  Fabian, 
would  you  rather  have  one  mother  or  two?" 

"I  would  have  chosen  always  to  have  my  own.  But  as 
things  are,  I  see  I  want  them  both." 

"And  you,  Guy?"  said  his  father. 

"He  wants  the  mother  he  has  always  had.  And  he  will 
always  have  her,"  said  Catherine. 

Guy  suddenly  rose  and  went  to  his  stepmother  and 
buried  his  face  on  her  shoulder. 

"Well,  it  is  natural,  my  boy,"  said  Cassius.  "And  we 
honour  you  for  having  the  feelings.  And  we  honour  you 
for  being  able  to  show  them.  It  is  a  thing  not  given  to  us 
all.  Well,  Flavia,  you  do  not  come  out  of  it  with  nothing." 

Guy  was  so  far  from  honouring  himself  that  he  could  not 
lift  his  face. 

"What  relation  is  she  to  us?"  said  Henry,  indicating 
Catherine. 

"No  relation,  my  boy.    She  is  the  elder  boys'  mother." 

"Why  isn't  she  our  stepmother,  if  our  mother  is  theirs?" 

"Mater  has  never  been  a  stepmother  to  them.  She  has 
been  a  real  mother." 

"But  I  mean  in  a  legal  sense." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?"  said  Cassius,  glancing  at 
Catherine.   "So  you  have  come  to  that." 

"It  is  not  the  same,"  said  Megan.  "Their  mother  isn't 
Father's  wife.  He  can  only  have  one  at  a  time." 

113 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Ah,  they  arc  a  pair,  Catherine.  They  write  poems  and 
do  I  don't  know  what.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of 
them  sometimes.  I  can  hardly  beUeve  they  are  my 
children." 

"You  said  that  Megan  didn't  write  the  poem,"  said 
Henry.   "So  it  does  seem  strange  that  she  is  your  child." 

"Oh,  it  does,  does  it?  That  is  what  you  would  say. 
And  what  about  you?  Are  you  the  natural  child  for  me?" 

"I  don't  think  I  am.  We  are  too  different." 

"And  where  does  all  this  difference  lie?" 

"Well,  you  don't  know  the  truth  about  things,  and  I 
have  always  known." 

"Well,  give  me  an  example  of  all  this  truth.  You  cannot 
have  seen  so  much." 

"I  have  seen  some  to-day,  though  it  is  supposed  to  be  a 
day  of  happiness.  Fabian's  mother  is  here,  and  it  makes 
him  see  he  has  never  had  her.  And  Guy  doesn't  know 
which  mother  is  really  his." 

"Oh,  come,  two  mothers  are  enough  for  anyone.  I 
think  they  are  fortunate  boys." 

"Yes,  that  is  what  you  would  think." 

"You  can  see  her  feeling  the  truth,"  said  Megan.  "I 
mean  Fabian's  mother." 

"Well,  upon  my  word.  This  is  what  a  parent  has  to 
face.  You  are  fortunate  to  have  missed  some  of  it, 
Catherine." 

"No,  I  am  not  fortunate." 

"Well,  no,  I  suppose  you  are  not.  But  there  are  two 
sides  to  every  question.  And  I  don't  think  you  will  have 
this  sort  of  thing  with  Guy.  He  doesn't  seem  so  full  of  it 
somehow." 

"You  always  say  he  is  backward,"  said  Megan. 

114 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  glad  of  it.  It  is  a  fault  on 
the  right  side.  If  I  ever  found  any  fault  with  it,  I  retract 
what  I  said.   Give  me  a  natural  child." 

"You  haven't  found  out  you  like  him  as  he  is,  until  he 
has  his  mother,  and  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  Henry. 

"Why,  the  better  things  are,  the  worse  you  make  them. 
There  is  no  sense  in  such  forcing  of  things.  Your  words 
mean  nothing.  Well,  well,  my  little  son,  come  to  your 
father.  If  you  must  bear  the  troubles  of  the  world,  you 
want  his  help,  and  you  shall  have  it.  You  have  chosen  a 
hard  course.   I  wish  you  had  not,  for  your  own  sake." 

Toby  ran  up  and  waited  to  be  included  in  the  attentions. 

"Ah,  you  are  a  happy  little  soul.  I  cannot  imagine  two 
children  more  different.  I  declare  it  is  odd  to  be  the 
father  of  you  both." 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Toby,  offering  his  hand.  "Quite 
well;  so  glad;  very  much," 

"He  watches  us,"  said  Mr.  Clare.  "We  should  be  on 
our  guard.   He  will  be  bringing  up  what  is  forgotten." 

"And  he  doesn't  always  understand,"  said  Megan. 
"So  he  often  makes  things  seem  different." 

"I  hope  he  will  not  prove  the  most  difficult  customer  of 
all,"  said  Cassius. 

"Very  good  boy,"  said  Toby. 

"Is  it  true  that  the  child  is  the  father  of  the  man?"  said 
Guy. 

"You  must  ask  Mother  that,  or  Mater,"  said  his  father. 
"It  does  not  matter  which.  You  are  a  happy  boy  to  have 
the  choice." 

Catherine  and  Flavia  met  each  other's  eyes,  ready  to 
speak  but  waiting  for  each  other.  Flavia  seemed  the  more 
resolutely  silent. 

^^5 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

**I  think  there  is  something  in  us,  that  remains  in  us  and 
grows  with  us,"  said  Catherine  to  her  son.  "That  is  what 
the  words  mean." 

"So  Mother  knows,"  said  Gassius.  "There  are  two 
people  who  will  always  know,  Mother  and  Mater." 

"Mother,"  said  Fabian,  flushing  as  he  spoke,  "will  you 
always  come  here  to  us,  or  shall  we  sometimes  come  to 
you?" 

"Well  done,  my  boy!"  said  Gassius.  "You  have  taken 
the  plunge.  You  have  crossed  the  Rubicon.  It  will  never 
be  so  hard  again.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  sur- 
mount the  obstacles  in  life.  It  will  be  easier  for  you  in 
the  end.  Now,  Guy,  see  if  you  can  follow  your  brother's 
example." 

Guy  looked  up  as  if  in  question. 

"Say  something  to  Mother  and  use  that  name.  Then  the 
step  will  be  behind.  And  you  will  not  be  haunted  by  a 
sense  of  something  to  come,  something  that  would  get 
more  difficult  with  every  day." 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  to  say." 

"Oh,  come,  you  cannot  expect  me  to  believe  that." 

"I  believe  it,"  said  Megan,  "because  it  is  the  truth." 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  Henry,  looking  from  Guy  to 
his  father.   "Trouble  is  made  on  purpose." 

"You  should  prove  your  position,  Gassius,"  said  Flavia. 
"Say  something  yourself." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Well,  I  declare  I  can't  think  of  anything.  I  declare 
that  I  can't.  I  should  not  have  believed  that  words  could 
dry  up  like  that." 

"You  will  now  have  a  wider  range  of  beUef." 

"Now  you  are  an  ill-natured  little  woman.    Trying  to 

ii6 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

make  an  exhibition  of  your  husband.   What  I  said  to  the 
boy  was  said  in  all  innocence.   There  was  no  spite  in  it." 

"Ask  Mother  if  she  has  ever  had  the  experience,"  said 
Flavia  to  Guy.  "Say  'Mother,  do  you  find  it  difficult  to 
think  of  something  to  say  on  the  spur  of  the  moment?'  " 

Guy  repeated  the  words  in  a  quoting  tone,  and 
Catherine  answered  at  once. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is  a  common  thing." 

"Well,  it  seems  you  are  indebted  to  me  for  the  thing  to 
say,  after  all,"  said  Cassius,  in  his  grim  manner.  "It  was 
I  who  put  it  into  your  heads.  You  did  not  think  of  any- 
thing yourselves.   A  common  thing!   It  seems  to  be." 

"Did  you  ever  love  Fabian's  mother  best  in  the  world?" 
said  Henry. 

"Whom  does  Toby  love  best  in  the  world?"  said  Cassius, 
keeping  his  eyes  from  one  son  and  lifting  the  other.  "Tell 
Father  who  it  is." 

"Mother,"  said  Toby,  in  a  reverent  tone. 

"Do  you  not  mean  Mater?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Why  do  you  love  her  so  much,  the  lady  the  boys  call 
Mother?" 

"Toby  call  her  Mother  too.  Fabian  and  Guy  and  Toby. 
Poor  Mother  only  come  to-day." 

"You  really  love  Mater  and  Father  the  best." 

"Oh,  no,  here  to-day  and  yesterday." 

"You  little  good-for-nothing!  So  new  brooms  sweep  as 
clean  as  that." 

Toby  looked  at  him  without  comprehension. 

"Do  you  love  Mother  better  than  Bennet?" 

"Love  Mother  and  Bennet." 

"And  no  one  else?" 

117 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"No,"  said  Toby. 

"The  age  of  innocence!"  said  Cassius,  as  he  released  his 
son.   "It  ought  to  be  called  something  else." 

"Innocence  seems  to  mean  a  good  many  things,"  said 
Megan. 

"Well,  you  are  all  too  much  for  mc.  So  this  is  what  it  is 
to  have  a  family.  Whom  do  you  and  Henry  love  best  in 
the  world?" 

Henry  and  Megan  looked  at  each  other  and  looked  away. 

"Come,  answer  a  simple  question." 

"They  have  answered  it,"  said  Flavia,  "and  it  was  more 
than  it  deserved.  That  kind  of  question  need  not  be 
answered." 

"Why,  I  meant  it  in  all  innocence.  What  have  I  done 
now?  Upon  my  word,  I  am  an  ill-used  man.  I  wonder  if 
anyone  has  any  love  for  me.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
no  one  has,  after  all  I  have  done  for  everyone." 

"What  have  you  done?"  said  Henry.  "I  don't  mean  you 
haven't  done  anything.    I  just  meant  I  didn't  know." 

"Well,  what  a  question!  I  shall  not  answer  it.  It  is  the 
kind  of  question  that  need  not  be  answered." 

"I  think  it  is,"  said  Flavia. 

"It  was  meant  in  all  innocence,"  said  Megan. 

"Oh,  was  it?"  said  Cassius.  "And  is  that  meant  in 
innocence  too?  I  will  not  ask  you  if  you  love  your  father. 
I  have  had  my  answer." 

"You  know  that  is  not  true,"  said  Henry.  "Megan  was 
making  a  joke." 

"Oh?   A  joke  is  supposed  to  amuse  us,  isn't  it?" 

"I  think  it  did  amuse  people." 

"Well,  Toby,"  said  Cassius,  as  if  he  did  not  hear,  "you 
will  say  something  kind  to  Father." 

ii8 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

Toby  submitted  to  be  lifted  and  waited  to  earn  his 
release. 

"Do  you  think  about  Father  at  all?" 

*'Oh,  yes,"  said  Toby,  beginning  to  descend,  as  if  his 
duty  was  done. 

"How  much  do  you  think  about  him?" 

"Very  little  bit,"  said  Toby,  with  affection  for  the 
diminutive. 

"And  whom  do  you  think  about  a  great  deal?" 

"Bennet.   No,  Mother." 

"But  you  have  known  her  for  such  a  little  while." 

"Very  little  while,"  said  Toby  with  appreciation. 

"Upon  my  word,  Catherine,  you  have  chosen  the 
better  part.  The  less  you  do,  the  more  you  get,  it  seems  to 
me. 

"It  does  not  seem  so  to  me,  who  have  been  able  to  do  so 
Httle." 

"Megan  didn't  say  she  didn't  love  you,"  said  Henry  to 
his  father.  "It  was  you  who  said  it.  There  is  no  need  to 
make  things  different." 

"I  think  we  know  how  they  are,"  said  Gassius,  putting 
his  arm  lightly  about  his  son,  as  if  he  had  learned  better 
than  to  go  further.  "But  thank  you,  my  boy.  Father 
knows  what  you  mean." 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  drawing-room?"  said  Flavia,  rising 
from  the  table.  "The  children  do  not  come  with  us,  but 
the  boys  may  like  to  to-day." 

"Well,  how  do  you  feel,  boys?"  said  Gassius,  with  a  faint 
sigh  in  his  tone. 

"I  should  like  to  come,"  said  Fabian. 

"And  that  means  that  Guy  would  too.  I  know  you  speak 
with  one  voice,  or  that  he  speaks  with  yours." 

119 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  will  go  now,"  said  Catherine,  standing  straight  and 
still.  "It  is  enough  for  one  day.  I  find  it  is  enough.  I  go 
with  a  mind  at  peace.  I  go  in  gratitude.  I  shall  be 
grateful  for  anything  more  that  I  am  given." 

She  kissed  her  sons  and  went  to  the  door,  followed  by 
Cassius.  Flavia  held  out  her  hand  to  Guy,  and  he  came 
and  put  his  into  it.  Fabian  came  and  stood  in  front  of 
them. 

"I  am  not  ungrateful.  Mater.  You  may  think  I  am.  I 
shall  never  be,"  he  said,  speaking  in  short,  quick  sentences 
like  his  mother.  "I  have  wanted  this  thing  in  my  life. 
The  thing  the  younger  children  had.  I  am  glad  to  have  it. 
But  I  know  what  you  have  given  me.  And  I  know  you 
sometimes  found  it  hard.  I  wanted  the  person  who  found 
it  natural.  But  you  will  come  third  in  my  life.  You  will 
come  after  my  mother  and  Guy.  It  is  not  much  return  for 
what  you  have  done.  But  I  shall  not  come  so  high  in 
yours." 

Flavia  put  her  arm  about  him,  and  Cassius  returned  to 
the  room,  having  been  succeeded  by  Ainger  in  the  hall. 
His  eyes  dilated  coldly  on  what  met  them. 

"Now,  boys,  you  may  run  away,"  he  said,  his  voice  not 
disguising  that  he  had  had  his  fill  of  emotion.  "You  have 
stood  up  to  the  occasion.  You  have  borne  yourselves  well 
and  made  your  father  proud  of  you.  And  now  you  may  be 
your  natural  selves  again.   It  is  what  he  wishes  for  you." 

The  boys  withdrew  and  Cassius  threw  himself  into  a 
chair. 

"Well,  I  declare  I  feel  that  virtue  has  gone  out  of  mc. 
It  was  an  exacting  occasion,  but  I  think  I  rose  to  it.  I 
think  I  steered  everyone  through.  And  that  was  my  part. 
What  would  both  of  you  say?" 

I20 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"It  is  difficult  to  talk  about  some  of  it,"  said  Flavia. 

"Yes,  Fabian  behaved  like  a  man.  I  declare  I  was 
proud  of  him,  and  I  should  think  Catherine  was  too. 
And  I  hope  you  were,  Flavia.  He  did  you  credit,  my  dear. 
No  mother  could  have  done  better  for  him.  His  own 
mother  must  have  felt  it.  And  I  think  she  did,  and  meant 
to  show  it.  I  know  her  in  those  ways,  and  she  gives  people 
their  due.  Well,  so  you  think  it  passed  off  well?" 

"In  the  sense  that  we  did  our  best  in  it.  We  could  not  do 
more,  and  so  I  suppose  it  could  not  have  been  better. 
Fabian  has  thought  about  things  more  than  we  knew.  I 
ought  to  have  realised  it." 

"No,  you  ought  not.  You  ought  not  to  have  done  any 
more  than  you  have.  You  have  done  everything,  my  dear. 
You  have  done  too  much.  And  you  will  not  get  much 
return  for  it,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  It  is  a  good  thing  you  have 
children  of  your  own.  If  you  had  not,  you  would  be  in  a 
sorry  place  enough.  But  as  it  is,  you  will  get  your  reward 
in  your  own  way." 

"I  would  choose  the  ordinary  way.  Just  as  the  boys 
would  have  chosen  the  ordinary  things." 

"Guy  would  have  chosen  what  he  has  had.  He  has 
made  that  clear,  and  it  is  fair  to  him  to  accept  it.  And 
Catherine  accepted  it  openly;  I  thought  she  came  out 
well  there,  Flavia.  It  was  -never  her  way  to  fail  under  a 
test." 

"She  behaved  like  an  honest  woman.  We  have  always 
known  she  was  that." 

"She  was;  God  knows  she  was,"  said  Cassius,  In  another 
tone.  "I  have  reason  to  remember  her  honesty.  I  re- 
member the  level  we  lived  on.  There  was  no  getting  away 
with  little,   every-day  pretensions   with  her.     One  was 

121 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

always  stripped  of  everything  but  the  stark,  staring  truth. 
And  there  is  an  inner  core  in  everyone  that  hardly  bears 
that." 

"It  is  true  that  cores  arc  naturally  hidden." 

"I  am  glad  you  agree  with  me.  I  am  glad  you  are 
honest  enough." 

"It  seems  that  honesty  is  a  common  quality,"  said  Mr. 
Clare. 

"Honesty  of  a  kind,"  said  his  son,  grimly ;  "honesty 
directed  towards  other  people.  It  is  not  often  that  we 
turn  it  upon  ourselves." 

"I  should  have  thought  that  Catherine  was  more  likely 
to  do  so  than  most  of  us,"  said  Flavia. 

"Well,  perhaps  she  is.  But  she  wants  everyone  to  be 
subject  to  the  same  scrutiny.  And  people  have  a  right  to 
a  choice  in  the  matter,  as  in  any  other.  Well,  well,  I 
suppose  we  are  all  acting.  Not  that  I  think  I  act  over- 
much. I  think  I  am  a  natural  sort  of  man.  I  don't  often 
turn  my  eyes  on  myself." 

"Mrs.  Clare!"  said  Ainger,  throwing  open  the  door. 

Catherine  came  forward,  stood  still  and  began  to  speak. 

"I  have  returned.  It  is  against  my  will.  I  could  not  do 
anything  else.  I  have  lost  control  of  myself.  I  have  been 
given  much.  I  have  come  to  ask  for  more.  To  ask  to  see 
my  sons  daily,  hourly,  when  I  wish,  when  they  wish.  I 
have  come  to  ask  for  everything." 

"Ah,  you  know  the  quarter  to  go  to  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  Catherine,"  said  Cassius,  as  Catherine  turned  to 
his  wife.   "It  has  not  taken  you  long  to  find  that  out." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Flavia  spoke  in  a  new  tone, 
that  still  seemed  to  belong  to  herself. 

"I  cannot  give  you  everything.    You  must  know  that 

122 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

no  one  should  ask  that.  It  leaves  the  other  side  with 
nothing,  and  that  cannot  be  accepted.  The  boys  must  see 
this  house  as  their  home;  they  must  see  me  as  its  head. 
Anyone  who  comes  to  it,  comes  as  my  guest.'* 

"I  will  come  as  your  guest,"  said  Catherine. 

"You  would  come  as  your  children's  mother." 

"What  else  am  I  to  them?" 

"Many  things.   Among  them  a  stranger." 

"And  what  are  you  to  them?" 

"Many  things.   Among  them  a  mother." 

"You  could  remain  a  mother  to  them." 

"You  know  I  could  not,  and  that  you  would  not  remain 
a  stranger." 

"You  did  not  desire  me  to  remain  so." 

"I  did  and  do  desire  it,  to  the  point  where  you  have 
given  your  word." 

"I  am  breaking  it.  I  do  not  deny  it.  I  have  not 
strength  to  keep  it." 

"You  cannot  take  that  cover.  You  had  strength  to  give 
it.  You  must  have  counted  the  cost." 

"Come,  come,  let  the  matter  settle  itself,"  said  Cassius, 
flushing  and  coming  forward  as  if  to  separate  two  com- 
batants.  "Leave  it  to  the  future." 

"I  will  not,"  said  his  wife.  "It  would  mean  that  I  had 
no  future.  My  home  is  to  be  my  own,  and  the  children 
mine.  Other  people's  word  may  not  count,  but  mine 
stands  as  what  it  is.  The  boys  may  see  their  mother,  know 
her,  feel  her  influence.  That  is  much  to  ask  of  me.  I  was 
told  it  would  never  be  asked.  Words,  as  I  say,  have  no 
meaning.  So  I  must  protect  myself.  The  more  I  give,  the 
more  must  be  given.  Things  must  stop  somewhere.  I 
must  cease  from  giving." 

123 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Few  people  can  stand  power,"  said  Catherine. 

"What  of  yourself  when  you  had  it?" 

"I  had  none.    I  sought  your  mercy." 

"What  is  that  but  using  power?  There  is  no  strength 
like  pitifulness.  And  I  have  no  more  mercy.  I  have  given 
what  \vas  in  me." 

"I  do  not  think  you  know  yourself." 

"You  mean  you  thought  you  knew  me,  and  find  your 
mistake.  You  did  not  judge  me  truly.  I  do  not  ask 
nothing  for  myself.  You  who  ask  everything,  should 
understand  that." 

"I  ask  it  again,"  said  Catherine. 

"And  again  I  refuse  it.   I  give  you  no  hope." 

Catherine  turned  and  left  the  room,  and  left  a  silence. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  Cassius,  "so  it  has  come  to  this. 
And  after  it  had  gone  off  so  well.  I  thought  it  seemed  too 
good  to  be  true.  Well,  I  don't  blame  you,  Flavia.  I  don't 
know  that  anyone  is  to  blame.  I  daresay  even  Catherine 
was  helpless." 

"I  daresay  she  was.   So  am  I." 

"Well,  yes,  I  believe  you  are.  So  there  is  a  dead- 
lock." 

"No,  there  is  the  agreement  between  us,  the  conditions 
that  were  laid  down." 

"Well,  it  sounds  reasonable,  Flavia.  I  can't  say  it  does 
not.  And  I  thought  you  came  out  well;  I  was  grateful  to 
you.  But  I  can't  help  being  sorry  for  Catherine.  I  admit 
that  I  can't." 

"I  feel  inclined  to  congratulate  her.  She  has  asked  for 
much  and  obtained  it,  and  has  gone  on  to  ask  for  all.  I  am 
not  sorry  for  people  who  do  that.  They  can  serve  them- 
selves." 

124 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  you  have  never  done  it,  I  admit.  But  your 
standard  is  too  high  for  everyone." 

"I  see  that  it  is.  I  must  cease  to  observe  it.  It  means 
that  I  stand  alone,  giving  away  what  is  mine." 

"Well,  well,  it  does  seem  like  that.  And  so  I  suppose  it 
is  settled.  Catherine  comes  and  goes  at  your  charity  and 
discretion.  And  I  know  you  can  be  trusted  to  use  them 
both.  There  are  the  children  in  the  hall.  How  they 
always  seem  to  be  everywhere!  They  should  be  able  to 
give  as  well  as  take.  We  will  call  them  and  let  them 
distract  us." 

"It  will  be  well  to  let  something  do  so,"  said  Mr.  Clare, 
who  had  stood  in  silence.  "And  they  should  have  learned 
the  business." 

"So  Toby  has  come  to  see  Father,"  said  Cassius,  taking 
this  line  with  a  touch  of  weariness. 

"Come  to  see  Mother,"  said  Toby,  providing  no 
diversity  and  looking  round. 

"It  is  raining,"  said  Henry,  giving  his  explanation  of 
their  presence. 

"Where  are  Fabian  and  Guy?"  said  Flavia. 

"They  wanted  to  talk  by  themselves.  I  think  things 
have  got  worse  for  them." 

"I  am  afraid  they  have.  Their  life  is  simple  no  longer." 

"It  seems  best  to  have  your  own  mother  all  the  time,  or 
not  to  have  her  at  all,"  said  Megan. 

"Having  two  takes  all  your  thought,"  said  Henry, 
"so  that  you  don't  have  any  over  for  your  own  life." 

"I  am  afraid  you  see  the  truth,"  said  his  mother. 

"Truth  has  to  be  seen,  when  it  alters  everything." 

"Try  and  sight  a  favourable  truth,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 
"You  should  cultivate  a  sharper  vision." 

125 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  can't  think  ofonc just  now." 

"So  you  liked  the  lady  who  came  to-day,"  said  Cassius 
to  Toby.  "But  she  likes  Fabian  and  Guy  better  than 
you." 

"Oh,  yes,  poor  Guy!    No,  like  Toby." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  and  live  with  her?" 
1  es. 

"And  leave  Father  and  Mater  and  Bennet?" 

"Bennet  come  too.   Bennet  and  Megan  and  Toby." 

"And  no  one  else?" 

"Only  Wilham,"  said  Toby,  getting  off  his  father's 
knee. 

"Would  you  like  to  leave  us  all,  Henry?"  said  Cassius. 

"Well,  you  would  not  mind  if  I  did." 

"What  a  thing  to  say!  Of  course  I  s'-ould  mind. 
Father  would  not  know  what  to  do  without  lis  little  son. 
Wouldn't  you  mind  leaving  him  a  little?" 

"Well,  then  I  should,  or  else  it  would  be  sad  for  you. 
And  there  wouldn't  be  anywhere  for  me  to  go." 

"And  no  one  else  would  pay  for  our  food,"  said  Megan. 

"Well,  that  is  a  reason  for  staying,"  said  her  father, 
drily. 

"I  suppose  Fabian  and  Guy's  mother  would  pay  for 
theirs,"  said  Henry. 

"We  do  not  talk  about  who  pays  for  things,"  said 
Flavia. 

"Who  would  mind  paying  for  Toby's  food?"  said 
Cassius,  not  bearing  out  his  wife's  words. 

"Pay?"  said  Toby,  raising  his  eyes. 

"Give  money  for  it." 

"Bennet  does,"  said  Toby,  with  a  clearing  face.  "In  a 
shop.   Then  Toby  eat  it." 

126 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"What  does  Toby  eat?" 

"Very  nice  bun.   Henry  and  Megan  and  Toby." 

"Does  Toby  have  the  biggest?" 

"Oh,  no,  dear  httle  bun." 

"Does  WiUiam  have  a  bun  too?" 

"No,  very  nice  beer." 

"What  do  you  Hke  best  to  eat?  " 

"Only  bacon,"  said  Toby. 

"Surely  he  does  not  have  that?"  said  Cassius. 

"He  likes  the  smell  of  it,"  said  Megan.  "And  he  may 
have  tasted  it." 

"Always  eat  bacon,"  said  Toby. 

"You  should  say  what  is  true,"  said  his  father.  "You 
know  you  do  not  have  it  to  eat." 

"No,  not  good  for  him,  poor  little  boy!" 

"A  child  is  a  strange  thing,"  said  Cassius,  as  they  were 
left  alone. 

"It  is  a  natural  thing,"  said  his  wife.  "That  is  why  it 
strikes  a  civilised  person  as  strange." 

"Yes,  well,  I  suppose  one  is  a  civilised  person,"  said  her 
husband,  on  a  faintly  gratified  note,  "though  one  does  not 
think  of  oneself  in  that  way.  I  suppose  one's  training  and 
background  have  done  their  work.  Well,  Flavia,  what  is 
your  impression  of  Catherine,  now  you  look  back  on 
her?" 

"I  think  it  must  still  be  based  on  yours.  I  have  heard  so 
much  and  seen  so  little,  and  seen  that  under  strange 
conditions." 

"Well,  I  can  hardly  tell  you  my  impression,"  said  her 
husband,  leaning  back  and  frowning,  "though  it  sounds 
an  odd  thing  for  me  to  say.  You  see,  I  knew  so  much,  or 
thought  I  did,  but  now  that  I  see  her,  I  am  not  so  sure. 

127 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

And  tlicn  I  suddenly  sec  I  was  right,  and  then  I  am  in 
doubt  again.    So  it  is  difficult  to  tell." 

"It  must  be,"  said  his  wife. 

"That  is  why  I  wanted  to  know  what  you  thought. 
Vou  must  think  something.   And  I  can  see  that  you  do." 

"I  should  say  she  is  an  honest,  deep-natured  woman, 
but  of  a  purpose  so  single  that  it  blinds  her  to  any  claim 
but  her  own.  But  that  might  be  true  of  many  of  us  in  her 
place.  What  she  is  in  her  life  I  have  had  no  chance  of 
judging." 

"And  upon  my  word  I  can't  tell  you,  though  I  lived 
with  her  for  five  years.  More  than  half  as  long  as  I  have 
lived  with  you,  Flavia.  And  I  feel  I  know  you  in  and  out, 
every  corner  and  cranny  of  you.  There  is  no  question 
about  you  that  I  could  not  answer." 

"I  wonder  which  of  them  has  the  advantage,"  said  Mr. 
Clare. 

"Well,  do  you  know,  I  think  Catherine  has.  She  is 
able  to  take  cover  under  a  veil  of  mystery,  and  never  face 
the  light  of  day,  as  Flavia  does,  and  as  I  do  myself  in  a 
way.  I  declare  I  should  like  to  let  in  the  light  on  her  inner 
self  and  turn  my  eyes  on  it." 

"We  should  fear  to  do  that  to  anyone.  And  you  took 
exception  to  her  doing  it  to  you." 

"Well,  so  I  did,  and  so  I  do,  or  so  I  should,  if  it  hap- 
pened again.  But  mine  is  an  ordinary,  everyday  self 
enough.  It  is  hers  that  baffles  one  and  gives  rise  to  all 
sorts  of  problems.  My  little  poses  would  be  the  usual  ones. 
It  is  her  great,  unpitying  penetration  that  hits  you  in  the 
face  and  tricks  you  into  betraying  what  is  hardly  there. 
I  declare  I  used  to  reveal  things  that  I  did  not  know  were 
in  me  or  anyone.   She  used  to  open  up  a  new,  dark  world 

128 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

to  me.  Her  seeming  to  read  my  mind  never  resulted  in 
my  thinking  more  of  her.  Oh,  it  was  an  experience,  1 
can  tell  you,  living  with  her  for  five  years.  I  have  never 
been  the  same  man  since.  You  have  never  known  me  as 
I  was,  Flavia,  and  that  has  been  hard  on  you  as  well  as  on 
me.  Oh,  people  like  Catherine  do  their  own  harm,  in 
spite  of  their  lofty  stand.  And  she  could  not  do  with  me. 
Oh,  no,  I  was  too  ordinary  and  commonplace  for  her. 
And  the  world  had  to  know  that.  She  could  not  keep  it  to 
herself.  She  had  to  leave  me  because  of  it.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  I  imposed  conditions  on  my  own  behalf? 
And  yet  I  feel  her  influence  and  that  odd  sort  of  compelling 
force.  It  is  a  strange  thing.  Well,  I  don't  know  when  I 
have  had  an  outbreak  like  this.  Do  you  remember  my 
having  one,  Flavia?  The  past  was  somehow  too  much  for 
me.  It  rose  up  and  overwhelmed  me.  I  did  not  foresee 
this  result  of  having  Catherine  in  the  house." 

"The  past  would  be  too  much  for  any  of  us,  if  it  did  not 
stay  in  its  place,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"And  now  the  future  looms  before  us  with  all  sorts  of 
threats  and  doubts.   Shall  we  ever  be  through  it?" 

"When  we  are  through  everything.  But  keep  your 
thoughts  away  from  it.   You  find  the  present  enough." 

"Of  course  I  do,  and  so  do  you,  and  so  does  everyone." 

"Well,  it  is  enough,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 


129 


CHAPTER   VIII 

Well,  what  is  the  news,  Mr.  Ainger?"  said  Madge. 

Ainger  crossed  the  kitchen  with  a  slow  tread  and  his 
eyes  on  the  ground,  and  paused  with  his  hand  on  his  chair 
before  he  took  his  seat. 

"News?"  he  said,  raising  his  eyes. 

"Yes.  What  is  there  to  tell." 

"There  is  nothing  that  asks  to  be  told,  Madge." 

"We  have  suffered  a  sense  of  anticipation,"  said  Kate. 

"It  pleases  him  to  keep  things  to  himself,"  said  Halliday. 

"I  don't  think  thought  of  self  has  entered  in,"  said 
Ainger,  drawing  in  his  brows.  "There  are  cases  where  it 
does  not." 

"Are  there?"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Was  it  for  nothing  that  Simon  was  excluded  from  the 
dining-room?"  said  Ainger,  with  more  force.  "Was  it  an 
indication  or  was  it  not?" 

"We  hope  it  was,"  said  Madge.  "What  did  it  indicate?" 

"That  things  were  not  for  eyes  and  ears,  except  in 
cases." 

"So  did  nothing  happen?"  said  Halliday. 

"Happen?"  said  Ainger,  turning  fully  to  him.  "You 
would  not  expect  incidents  to  take  place?" 

"I  think  we  half  expected  it,"  said  Kate.  "Things  might 
have  given  rise." 

"The  gentry  are  themselves,"  said  Ainger,  "as  you  are 
aware." 

130 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"So  I  was,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Human  beings  like  all  of  us,"  said  Halliday. 

"No,  Halliday,"  said  Ainger,  gently,  "not  quite  like 
that." 

"Did  the  two  ladies  address  each  other?"  said  Kate. 
"That  seems  a  salient  point." 

"You  use  the  word,   Kate.    'Ladies'.    More  is  super- 
fluous." 

"What  were  you  doing  all  the  time?"  said  Halliday. 

"What  I  could  do.    Being  a  friend  to  them  in  my  own 
way." 

"Well,  be  a  friend  to  us  in  ours,"  said  Madge. 

"There  must  have  been  a  good  deal  of  waiting  to  be 
done,"  said  Simon. 

"Being  a  friend  to  them  in  their  way,"  said  Halliday. 

"Well,    that   was   my   duty,    Halliday,"   said   Ainger, 
simply. 

"England  expects  it  of  everyone,"  said  Kate,  sighing. 

"Ah,  we  know  it,  Kate,"  said  Ainger.   "You  are  correct 
in  your  figure." 

"There  is  a  strain  of  what  is  higher  in  all  of  us,"  said 
Kate. 

"But  it  is  a  pity  it  comes  out  in  Mr.  Ainger  just  now," 
said  Madge. 

"I  suppress  it  in  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  "for  fear  it 
should  be  too  high." 

"I  am  sorry  if  you  meant  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  of 
it,"  said  Ainger.   "It  does  not  appeal  to  me  in  that  light." 

"Can  you  eat  anything?"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  with  her  lips 
grave. 

"Well,  it  has  taken  it  out  of  me.   It  could  not  be  other- 
wise." 

I3J 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  when  you  have  put  it  back  into  you,"  said 
Madge,  "I  hope  we  shall  see  the  result." 

Her  hope  was  realised  as  far  as  could  be  expected. 
Ainger  followed  her  suggestion,  and  then  sat  up  and 
looked  about  him. 

"Well,  it  was  a  human  scene.  Human  nature  was  writ 
large.  And  it  is  a  thing  that  makes  its  appeal.  I  have 
always  been  struck  by  it." 

"But  what  was  said  and  done?"  said  Madge. 

"Nothing  of  a  nature  to  be  passed  on.  But  much.  It 
was  a  contradiction  in  terms." 

"Well,  tell  us  what  you  can,"  said  Halliday. 

"Greetings  were  exchanged,"  said  Ainger;  "remarks 
were  passed;  convention  was  pursued.  But  there  was 
nothing  that  made  for  disclosure.  It  was  the  outward 
and  visible  sign." 

"Of  the  inward  grace,"  said  Kate. 

"There  is  no  better  word.  It  is  the  one  I  should 
apply." 

"Was  there  no  sign  of  the  emotions  underneath?" 

"Kate,  would  signs  have  been  in  place?" 

"Well,  we  rather  feel  they  would,"  said  Madge. 

"The  interchange  might  have  marked  any  ordinary 
occasion." 

"Perhaps  that  was  what  it  was,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"You  would  almost  have  thought  it,  Mrs.  Frost,"  said 
Ainger,  turning  to  her  frankly.  "So  complete  was  the 
effort  made,  and  the  success  that  crowned  it." 

"How  did  the  master  comport  himself?"  said  Kate. 

"Like  himself,"  said  Ainger,  smiling.  "There  was  the 
first  hesitation,  and  then  the  torrent  flowed.  And  it  was 
opportune,  as  there  was  the  silence  of  constraint." 

132 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Did  the  former  mistress  extend  marks  of  recognition  to 
you?" 

"Kate,  we  might  have  parted  yesterday.  I  found  my- 
self looking  to  her  in  the  old  way.  And  the  present 
mistress  smiled  upon  it.  I  could  have  let  the  tears  start  to 
my  eyes." 

"Well,  I  expected  to  be  more  entertained  and  less  up- 
lifted," said  Madge. 

"You  use  the  word,"  said  Ainger.  "I  can  feel  the  better." 

"I  should  have  liked  to  see  the  ladies  in  contact,"  said 
Kate.    "It  constitutes  the  climax." 

"It  was  the  high-water  mark,  Kate.  As  high  as  we  need 
to  go." 

The  bell  rang  and  Ainger  rose  with  a  sigh  and  a  move- 
ment of  his  shoulders,  as  if  acquiescing  in  the  continued 
need  of  him. 

"It  seems  we  have  not  always  done  justice  to  Mr. 
Ainger,"  said  Kate. 

"He  has  not  always  done  it  to  himself,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 
"I  don't  think  he  ever  has  before." 

"I  hope  he  won't  make  a  habit  of  it,"  said  Madge. 

"We  can  tolerate  anything  the  first  time,"  said  Halliday. 

Ainger  returned,  resumed  his  seat  and  rested  his  head 
on  his  hand. 

"Well,  they  soon  spared  you,"  said  Halliday. 

"Yes.  Yes,"  said  Ainger,  just  shaking  his  head.  "There 
was  not  much  I  could  do  for  them.  I  think  it  was  just  the 
glimpse." 

"There  was  not  time  for  much  more,"  said  Madge. 

"I  think  I  fulfilled  their  need,  Madge." 

It  appeared  that  he  was  mistaken.  A  step  sounded  in 
the  passage  and  Gassius  came  to  the  door. 

133 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Ainger,  this  is  not  the  wine  I  meant.   I  must  come  and 
how  you  myself.    It  seems  impossible  to  get  it." 

Ainger  rose  with  a  finished,  willing  movement,  hastened 
to  the  door  to  open  it  for  his  master,  and  preceded  him 
to  the  wine  cellar  to  do  the  same.  Presently  they  were 
heard  in  the  passage,  Cassius  using  his  ordinary  tones,  and 
Ainger  subduing  his,  so  that  any  subject  could  be  inferred. 

"No,  I  can  take  it  m.yself,"  said  Cassius,  revealing  the 
nature  of  the  last  one.    "I  am  going  back  to  the  library." 

Ainger  returned  with  a  firm  step  to  his  place. 

"The  master  would  carry  the  bottles  himself,"  he  said, 
smiling.    "I  did  not  want  to  be  spared." 

"Well,  you  had  what  you  wanted,"  said  Halliday. 

Ainger  gave  him  an  absent  smile  and  relapsed  into 
thought. 

"Are  we  allowed  to  disturb  Mr.  Ainger's  reflections?" 
said  Madge. 

"Yes,"  said  Ainger,  looking  at  her  kindly,  "I  am  not  so 
enamoured  of  them." 

"Being  to  do  with  the  family?"  said  Kate. 

"Yes.  The  master  did  his  best  to  give  a  natural  im- 
pression.  But  I  see  that  the  heart  is  beneath." 

"I  have  never  seen  him  when  he  did  not  give  one,"  said 
Madge. 

"No,"  said  Ainger,  looking  at  her  in  gentle  acquiescence. 

"You  think  he  would  not  show  himself  to  me?" 

"Now  why  should  he,  Madge?" 

"I  should  certainly  be  flattered  by  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Ainger,  looking  into  space.  "One  does  feel 
that  at  first.   But  feelings  supervene." 

"You  get  your  experience  of  life  at  second-hand,"  said 
Halliday. 

134 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes.  Yes,"  said  Ainger,  spacing  his  words  and  just 
raising  his  brows.  "It  does  amount  to  that.  I  find  I  can 
identify  myself.  But  you,  if  I  may  say  so,  do  not  get  any  at 
all." 

"May  you  say  so  like  that?"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"The  real  thing  or  nothing  for  me,"  said  Halliday.  "Do 
you  not  agree,  Mrs.  Frost?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  have  nothing?" 

"The  appreciation  of  all  of  us,"  said  Ainger,  in  a  full 
tone  reminiscent  of  his  master.  "Is  that  quite  nothing? 
And  I  will  tell  you  one  thing,  Mrs.  Frost;  and  I  don't  often 
commit  myself  like  this.  If  there  was  anyone  I  could  find 
myself  regarding  as  a  mother,  it  would  be  you." 

"Be  a  good  son  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Is  the  first  Mrs.  Clare  still  in  the  house?"  said  Kate. 

"No,"  said  Ainger,  a  smile  playing  on  his  lips.  "I  have 
attended  her  to  the  door." 

"What  is  the  jest?"  said  Halliday.  "Is  there  some 
second  meaning?" 

"In  a  sense  it  was  twofold,"  said  Ainger,  still  smiling. 

"You  showed  her  out  when  the  moment  came." 

"That  may  be  said  of  me.   There  is  the  ground." 

"In  some  double  sense?" 

"In  one,  if  you  like,"  said  Ainger,  yielding  to  a  broader 
smile. 

"Did  you  exchange  any  words?"  said  Kate. 

"We  stood  in  converse  for  some  minutes.  But  exchange 
was  hardly  the  term.   I  felt  it  was  for  me  to  stand  silent." 

"Did  she  ask  after  your  welfare  through  all  these  years?" 

"She  did  not  fail  to,  Kate.  And  I  answered  her  briefly, 
feeling  that  brevity  was  in  place." 

"We  know  more  about  you  than  we  did,"  said  Halliday. 

135 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"It  is  often  possible  to  live  with  someone  and  not  know 
much  about  him,  Halliday." 

"Especially  if  he  forgets  to  tell  us,"  said  Madge. 

"You  none  of  you  know  what  life  implies,"  said  Ainger. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  known  very  long,"  said  Madge. 

"Of  course  we  know,"  said  Halliday.  "Birth  and  death 
have  come  to  us  all." 

"Birth  has  come  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"It  is  the  space  between  that  comprises  matters,"  said 
Kate. 

"As  I  think  the  former  mistress  felt,"  said  A.inger. 
"Indeed  it  was  tacit  between  us." 

"Well,  I  must  admit  to  a  sense  of  disappointment." 

"Ah,  you  wanted  to  hear  of  incidents,  Kate." 

"It  would  have  been  nice,"  said  Madge. 

"But  I  should  have  been  called  upon  to  witness  them. 
And  that  would  not  have  been  so.  To  see  people  of 
calibre  fall  from  their  level!   But  I  was  to  be  spared." 

"I  hoped  to  be  called  upon  to  hear  of  them,"  said 
Madge.  "I  wish  they  had  something  common  done  or 
mean,  upon  that  memorable  scene." 

"The  words  apply,  Madge,"  said  Ainger. 

"Who  was  it  who  did  nothing  common  or  mean?"  said 
Simon. 

"It  was  only  once  that  it  was  anyone,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Someone  who  was  to  be  beheaded,"  said  Kate.  "It 
would  be  hard  to  be  oneself  then." 

"Anyhow  for  long,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"It  was  Charles  the  First  of  England,"  said  Ainger; 
"Charles,  our  Royalist  king." 


136 


'  CHAPTER   IX 

i  Flavia  left  her  home  and  went  on  foot  to  the  house  of 
I  the  Scropes.  She  walked  as  though  she  wished  to  meet  no 
',1  one,  but  would  not  avoid  doing  so,  as  though  her  errand 
I  were  not  surreptitious  but  her  own.  She  was  taken  to 
I  Catherine  and  began  at  once  to  speak,  as  if  she  knew  her 
i'  words  by  heart.  The  words  seemed  to  have  an  echo  of  the 
ii  other  in  them. 

I       "I  have  come  to  say  one  thing  to  you.  That  I  withdraw 

I   what  I  have  said.   It  is  as  if  I  had  not  said  it.   You  shall 

see  your  sons  when  you  wish,  as  you  wish,  as  often  as  you 

wish;  at  any  hour  or  moment,  in  the  day  or  in  the  night. 

;  I  want  to  do  my  best  for  them,  and  this  is  my  best.    I 

I  should  have  known  it,  but  for  the  moment  I  did  not  know. 

I  I  have  to  do  a  mother's  duty  to  them,  and  that  is  to  give 

I  them  to  their  own  mother.   I  did  not  find  it  easy,  and  that 

may  show  they  belong  to  you.    Take  them  and  do  your 

I  part  by  them.    I  could  not  give  up  my  own  children.    I 

I  will  not  ask  you  to  give  up  yours." 

!  'T  knew  you  would  not.  I  felt  it  in  you.  I  saw  it  in  your 
i  eyes.  That  is  why  I  dared  to  ask  everything  from  you, 
;  dared  to  hope  for  it  when  it  was  denied.  That  is  why  I 
!  can  accept  it  from  you,  as  a  thing  you  have  a  right  to  give 
I  and  I  to  take.  I  take  it  fully  and  gratefully  as  my  right  and 
I  yours.  There  are  people  from  whom  we  can  take.  I  shall 
[  remain  in  your  debt  willingly.  I  shall  be  willing  to  be  unable 
I  to  repay.  I  could  not  say  it  to  everyone.  I  say  it  to  you." 
I  137 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  hope  you  will  say  anything  to  me,  that  you  will  ask 
me,  tell  me,  anything  you  have  to  ask  or  tell.  It  is  my 
wish  to  help  you,  answer  you,  take  your  help." 

"I  acknowledge  my  good  fortune.  I  know  it  for  what  it 
is.  It  is  a  light  across  the  darkness  of  my  life,  a  break 
across  its  waste.  I  can  see  it  in  another  light.  And  it  is  a 
relief  to  escape  from  bitterness.  There  is  an  especial 
sadness  in  self-pity." 

"It  is  strange  that  we  should  be  blamed  for  it,"  said 
Flavia,  in  another  tone.  "As  if  we  should  feel  it  without 
cause,  or  desire  to  have  cause  for  it.  And  we  are  allowed 
to  feel  pity  for  other  people,  even  enjoined  to.  There  is 
one  rule  for  us  and  another  for  them.  Self-love,  self-pity, 
self-esteem  are  all  terms  of  reproach.  The  only  thing  we 
may  do  is  respect  ourselves,  and  that  seems  to  be  com- 
pulsory." 

"Well,  the  rules  would  have  to  be  strict,"  said  another 
voice,  as  a  figure  rose  from  the  hearth  and  moved  into 
view.  "My  sister  and  I  are  at  home  in  talk  of  this  kind. 
We  were  frightened  by  the  other.  We  are  afraid  of  the 
truth." 

"And  you  are  right,"  said  Flavia.  "It  is  a  thing  to  be 
afraid  of." 

"But  it  is  a  mistake  to  be  prepared  for  it.  We  never 
know  when  preparation  may  come  in." 

"Have  you  been  there  all  the  time?"  said  Catherine. 

"We  are  always  there,"  said  her  sister.  "In  summer  or 
winter,  by  a  warm  hearth  or  a  cold.  I  expect  we  are  like 
crickets." 

"You  should  not  forget  to  chirp.  That  is  your  work  in 
life.  You  have  not  met  Mrs.  Glare." 

"We  could  hardly  do  that,"  said  Elton,  shaking  hands. 

138 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"But  I  have  observed  her  from  a  distance  and  thought  of 
her  leading  a  life  that  was  too  much  for  you." 

"That  is  the  way  to  think  of  her.  As  someone  who  can 
do  what  is  beyond  other  people." 

"We  have  seen  the  nobler  side  of  human  nature,"  said 
Ursula.  "And  it  is  so  much  nobler;  I  had  no  idea  of  it. 
I  am  greatly  softened.  I  hope  it  is  wholesome  discomfort," 

"We  can  be  cynics  no  longer,"  said  her  brother,  "even 
though  people  will  not  think  we  are  so  clever.  We  must  be 
true  to  our  new  knowledge." 

"Do  people  think  you  are  clever?"  said  Catherine. 

"I  think  they  must,  when  we  have  tried  to  make  them. 
No  real  effort  is  wasted,  and  this  was  a  real  one.  And 
perhaps  we  are,  compared  with  them." 

"Do  we  all  regard  ourselves  as  above  the  average?" 

"Well,  think  what  the  average  is." 

"That  hardly  matters,"  said  Flavia,  "as  everyone  seems 
to  be  above  it.   Can  you  think  of  an  average  person?" 

"Well,  I  would  rather  not  think  of  one,"  said  Ursula. 

"Most  people  must  be  average,"  said  Catherine,  "or 
there  would  not  be  such  a  thing." 

"Well,  let  us  hope  there  is  not,"  said  her  sister. 

"I  find  them  pleasant  to  look  at,  pleasant  to  listen  to, 
pleasant  in  themselves." 

"I  am  sure  they  are.   But  I  do  not  find  them  so." 

"There  must  have  been  times  in  your  youth  when  you 
felt  you  were  average  or  below.   They  come  to  us  all." 

"Do  they?    I  did  not  know." 

"Catherine,  I  hope  you  are  not  average,"  said  Elton. 

"I  am  the  last  person  to  object  to  being  so." 

"Then  you  are  not,  or  you  would  object  to  it." 

"Is  there  any  meaning  in  anything  we  say?" 

139 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,"  said  Ursula,  "a  dreadful,  simple  meaning.  We 
look  down  on  our  fellow-creatures,  and  you  are  proud  of 
not  doing  so." 

"And  do  they  look  down  on  you?" 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  they  can." 

"They  may  think  you  are  eccentric  and  unlike  other 
people." 

"Well,  I  hope  they  think  that." 

"So  you  are  sensitive  to  their  opinion?" 

"Yes,  it  is  so  high.   I  value  it  very  much." 

"You  know  you  are  quite  inconsistent?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"You  see  very  little  of  them." 

"It  would  be  a  risk  to  see  too  much,"  said  Elton. 
"Suppose  they  thought  we  resembled  them!" 

"So  you  work  at  maintaining  the  difference?" 

"Yes,  our  life  is  a  braver  struggle  than  many  that  are 
more  recognised." 

"People  do  not  suspect  it,"  said  Ursula.  "They  are  too 
generous." 

"Would  you  like  anyone  you  had  brought  up,  to  turn 
out  like  this?"  said  Catherine,  smiling  at  Flavia.  "It  is 
time  their  sister  returned  to  them." 

"It  is  time  for  you  to  do  so  much.  And  I  am  to  help  you 
where  I  can.   I  am  to  work  for  your  children  under  you." 

"I  say  the  same  to  you.   I  use  the  selfsame  words." 

"We  have  had  the  subject  changed,"  said  Elton  to  Ursula. 
"Could  they  have  thought  it  was  not  a  necessary  one?" 

"I  wish  I  could  say  some  noble  thing.  I  feel  them  rising 
up  within  me,  but  I  never  know  what  they  are.  And  I 
might  be  embarrassed  if  I  did.  W^hat  about  our  influence 
over  the  boys,  if  we  see  them?" 

140 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  trust  you,"  said  Catherine,  in  a  sudden  tone.  "Trust 
people,  and  they  will  be  worthy  of  trust," 

"So  they  are  not  worthy  of  it  anyhow,"  said  Ursula. 
"I  wonder  how  far  the  principle  works." 

"Not  very  far,"  said  her  brother.  "Distrust  and  watch 
people,  and  they  will  be  worthy  of  it." 

"I  do  not  take  that  view,"  said  Catherine.  "I  will  not 
take  it." 

"I  fear  it  has  its  truth,"  said  Flavia.  "For  example,  we 
used  to  think  people  would  pay  their  debts,  and  now  we 
refuse  to  lend." 

"We  give  what  we  can,"  said  Catherine. 

"So  your  trust  has  quite  gone,"  said  her  sister. 

"We  have  to  learn  to  give." 

"It  seems  that  we  do,"  said  Elton. 

"You  are  both  honest,"  said  Catherine. 

"Well,  we  like  facing  the  worst.  We  recognise  the 
hopelessness  of  things." 

"And  you  appreciate  it,"  said  Flavia. 

"Yes,  other  people  cannot  be  too  fortunate." 

"It  is  something  to  feel  that,"  said  Ursula,  "but  I  am 
afraid  they  can." 

"Afraid  is  a  very  honest  word,"  said  Elton.  "I  am  afraid 
some  people  are  rich." 

"Riches  do  not  bring  happiness.  But  I  am  afraid  they 
do." 

"And  some  have  happy  temperaments.  There  seems  no 
end  to  it." 

"Do  you  think  that  is  true?  Should  we  not  sometimes 
meet  them?" 

"Believe  it  or  not,"  said  Catherine,  "I  had  one  when  I 
was  young." 

141 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"It  is  hard  to  believe,"  said  her  sister. 

"Have  you  not  happy  temperaments  yourselves?" 

"Catherine,  how  can  you?"  said  Elton.  "Have  you  not 
looked  into  our  eyes?  We  know  they  have  their  own 
melancholy,  when  we  give  it  to  them." 

"What  of  your  temperament?"  said  Catherine  to  Flavia. 

"I  have  lost  sight  of  it.   It  has  long  been  overlaid." 

"Perhaps  ours  have,"  said  Elton.   "I  daresay  that  is  it." 

"I  see  mine  has,"  said  Catherine.  "I  must  try  to 
recover  it.  It  is  no  longer  only  my  own  concern.  That  is  a 
thing  I  have  longed  to  say." 

"Things  do  put  you  at  such  an  advantage,"  said  her 
sister.  "We  are  never  shown  at  our  best.  We  hardly  know 
what  it  is,  and  I  don't  think  anyone  else  even  suspects." 

"I  believe  I  know,"  said  Elton. 

"What  is  the  good  of  an  impulse  to  rise  to  heights,  if  it 
has  to  be  wasted?" 

"You  want  to  do  something  noble?"  said  Flavia. 

"It  is  not  as  bad  as  that.  We  only  want  to  be  known  to 
have  done  it.  Why  should  it  be  known  about  other  people 
and  not  about  us,  when  hardly  anything  is  noble  really?" 

"You  will  tell  me  when  I  shall  see  you,"  said  Flavia  to 
Catherine,  as  she  took  her  leave,  "or  if  you  wish  to  come 
without  my  doing  so.   It  will  be  for  you  to  say." 

The  two  women  went  into  the  hall  and  talked  for  some 
time  before  they  parted. 

"So  we  ought  to  have  left  them,"  said  Ursula,  "but  I  am 
glad  we  did  not.  Virtue  is  its  own  reward,  and  we  wanted 
another." 

"Catherine  is  no  longer  a  tragic  figure,"  said  Elton. 
"It  seems  unworthy  of  her.  It  is  so  ordinary  for  things  to 
go  well,  though  that  is  odd,  when  it  is  so  unusual." 

142 


CHAPTER   X 

Well,  this  is  a  nice  position  for  a  man,"  said  Cassius. 
"Alone  in  the  morning,  alone  at  noon,  alone  until  night! 
What  is  the  good  of  a  wife,  when  you  never  see  or  hear 
her?  What  is  the  good  of  having  two  wives,  when  they 
neutralise  each  other?  I  wonder  there  is  a  law  against  it, 
if  it  recoils  on  a  man's  head." 

"You  said  you  might  keep  a  harem,  my  boy.  I  don't 
know  how  you  would  have  managed  with  one." 

"Yes,  make  a  mock  of  me.  It  is  what  I  expect.  Leave 
me  without  a  word  of  human  kindness.  I  should  be  sur- 
prised by  anything  else." 

"Then  why  be  surprised  by  that?"  said  Mr.  Clare. 
"But  you  need  not  fear  I  will  not  serve  you.  It  is  the  one 
way  left  to  me  to  serve  myself" 

"It  is  a  hard  thing,"  broke  out  his  son,  "this  emptiness 
in  my  home.  Silence  instead  of  a  familiar  voice^  silence 
instead  of  a  familiar  step,  silence,  silence,  silence  wherever 
I  turn.  Two  women  absorbed  in  each  other  like  this !  It 
is  not  a  wholesome  thing,  apart  from  their  being  wives  of 
the  same  man.   It  may  set  tongues  to  work." 

"It  is  a  long  time  since  Catherine  has  been  your  wife." 

"Well,  she  might  almost  be  my  wife  again,  now  that 
she  has  a  right  in  my  house,  or  a  right  of  way  through  it, 
or  whatever  it  is  she  has.  Whatever  it  may  be,  she  makes 
the  most  of  it.  I  am  always  encountering  her,  or  her  and 
Flavia  together.   I  hardly  dare  to  set  foot  in  my  own  hall. 

143 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

They  have  no  eyes  or  ears  for  anyone  but  each  other. 
And  I  am  left  high  and  dry,  with  my  children  tossing  a 
word  to  me  out  of  pity.  I  wonder  you  like  to  see  your  son 
in  such  a  plight.  If  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  the  more  need 
of  a  father." 

"I  wish  I  could  meet  the  need,  my  boy.  But  my  time  is 
running  out.    I  have  reached  my  useless  days." 

"You  might  let  fall  a  word  to  Flavia  at  some  time. 
Unless  you  are  afraid  of  her.  I  believe  a  man  is  always 
afraid  of  a  woman." 

"We  should  be  afraid  of  anyone  to  whom  we  let  fall  a 
word.  Hell  holds  no  fury  like  such  a  person." 

"And  you  would  think  I  might  say  the  word  for  myself, 
a  great,  strong  man  in  the  heyday  of  my  life.  But  my 
soul  shrinks  up  within  me  when  I  think  of  those  two  pairs 
of  eyes  in  those  two  women's  faces.  I  don't  want  to  see 
the  noble  souls  behind  them.  They  give  nothing  to  me; 
they  only  tear  my  own  soul  out  of  its  place.  What  I  want 
is  a  little  normal  fellowship  in  my  middle  age.  I  thought 
that  Flavia  and  I  would  go  down  the  years  together,  just  as  I 
thought  it  about  Catherine.  I  am  not  a  man  to  go  alone 
through  life.  And  I  get  a  look  or  a  word  thrown  to  me  out 
of  their  kindness.  Kindness!  It  is  a  quality  I  have  come 
to  despise.  If  ever  a  man  had  enough  of  it,  it  is  I.  And 
you  are  looking  at  me  as  if  you  hardly  saw  me.  I  suppose  I 
must  expect  nothing." 

"You  must  expect  it  from  me,  my  boy.  I  am  past  being 
of  use.  I  have  to  ask  for  your  help  to  me.  It  is  true  that  I 
hardly  see  you.  I  am  in  need  of  the  drug  that  helps  me  in 
my  bodily  decay.  It  is  kept  in  the  drawer  of  the  desk.  I 
am  to  take  one  tablet,  as  it  is  said  that  more  would  harm 
me.  My  days  of  labour  and  sorrow  are  to  be  prolonged." 

144 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Do  you  take  them  more  often  than  you  did?"  said 
Cassius,  as  he  brought  the  flask. 

"I  am  not  at  an  age  to  take  less.  It  is  a  palliative,  not  a 
cure.  And  as  such  I  am  dependent  on  it.  Ten  is  said  to  be 
fatal  to  us.  It  is  written  on  the  label  to  protect  us  from 
ourselves,  or  other  people  from  us." 

"Isn't  it  dangerous  to  have  such  things  about?" 

"We  do  not  do  so.  They  are  kept  under  cover.  They 
are  necessary  in  certain  cases.  You  know  that,  when  you 
are  one  of  them." 

"It  would  be  an  easy  way  of  putting  an  end  to  oneself. 
Why  are  we  not  allowed  to  take  our  own  lives?  It  seems 
that  they  are  our  own." 

"We  are  seen  as  mattering  enough  to  be  forbidden  to  do 
so.  I  agree  we  should  not  expect  it.  Human  lives  are 
sacred,  and  we  all  have  one.  A  poor  thing,  but  our  own." 

"So  I  could  end  my  life  by  taking  ten  of  these,"  said 
Cassius.  "And  I  might  do  so  for  all  anyone  would  care. 
It  would  be  a  shock  to  people,  I  suppose." 

"But  you  would  not  be  here  to  see  them  suffer  it.  So  it 
would  be  wasted." 

"So  it  would  in  a  way.  I  don't  mean  I  want  them  to 
have  it." 

"Well,  hardly  enough  to  give  your  life  for  it." 

"Oh,  well,  you  have  your  own  way  of  putting  things. 
And  I  see  it  has  a  certain  truth.  But  it  is  not  the  whole." 

"A  certain  truth  is  our  own  truth,  my  boy.  The  whole 
seldom  concerns  us." 

"This  house  would  be  a  different  place  without  me, 
though  I  am  held  to  be  of  so  little  account." 

"You  would  not  see  it  in  that  state,  however  great  a 
treat  it  would  be." 

145 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Oh  well,  well,  you  arc  still  yourself.  We  don't  know 
what  we  shall  be  able  to  do  in  our  future  state." 

"Would  that  be  the  sort  of  privilege  afforded,  things 
being  as  you  would  have  them?" 

"I  only  meant  we  might  be  granted  a  wider  range." 

"Dead  men  tell  no  tales,  my  boy.  And  they  would  do 
that,  if  they  could  do  anything.  And  I  doubt  the  ad- 
vantage of  seeing  things  going  on  without  us.  You  see, 
that  is  what  they  would  be  doing." 

"But  in  a  different  way." 

"No,  in  the  same  way,  but  without  us." 

"You  would  miss  me,  if  I  were  dead." 

"It  is  you  who  will  miss  me.  And  I  do  not  look  to  be 
flattered  by  it." 

"I  should  miss  you  indeed,  my  dear  old  father.  I  could 
not  face  life  without  you.  I  can  imagine  taking  ten  of 
these,  to  go  with  you  wherever  it  is.  And  I  cannot  think 
it  is  nowhere.  There  would  be  no  hope  in  anything,  and 
we  cannot  live  without  hope." 

"That  may  be  our  reason  for  contriving  it." 

"I  wonder  what  Flavia  would  think,  if  I  put  an  end  to 
myself." 

"No,  it  is  not  your  solution.  You  want  your  reward,  and 
you  would  not  have  it." 

"There  is  not  much  to  bind  me  to  life." 

"But  no  more  to  tempt  you  to  lose  it." 

"It  would  be  a  good  lesson  for  people,  to  have  to  do 
without  me." 

"If  you  have  their  improvement  enough  at  heart  to  die 
for  it." 

"It  would  be  a  kind  of  revenge  on  them." 

"Well,  perhaps  you  might  die  for  that,  if  you  could  see  it." 

146 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Why  should  I  want  that  so  much  more?" 

"Well,  revenge  is  sweet,  but  it  is  not  so  true  of  people's 
improvement." 

"I  should  like  to  see  those  two  women's  faces,  if  I  were 
found  cold  and  stiff  in  my  bed." 

"So  it  is  as  sweet  as  that.  But  you  must  give  up  hope. 
There  is  no  way  of  arranging  to  see  them." 

"You  must  have  death  the  end  of  everything.  I  believe 
we  shall  pass  to  a  fuller  life." 

"And  with  your  own  kind  of  fullness." 

"Well,  I  suppose  we  shall  have  passed  beyond  all 
personal  feeling." 

"It  would  be  no  good  to  take  revenge,  if  you  would  not 
want  it  any  more." 

"You  do  not  understand  me.  I  was  only  using  my 
imagination." 

"Well,  let  it  do  the  whole  thing  for  you,  my  boy." 

Cassius  heard  sounds  outside  the  door  and  went  to 
open  it.  Flavia  and  Catherine  were  crossing  the  hall,  with 
the  five  children  about  them.  Cassius  stood  and  surveyed 
them. 

"Well,  are  you  all  coming  to  say  a  word  to  your 
father?" 

There  was  no  reply, 

"Or  is  no  one  coming?"  said  Cassius,  in  another  tone. 

Toby  took  a  few  running  steps  towards  him  and  re- 
treated. Guy  looked  from  his  stepmother  to  his  mother 
and  did  no  more.   The  other  children  gave  no  sign. 

"I  suppose  they  can  recognise  me  when  they  see  me. 
Anyone  would  think  I  was  a  stranger." 

"No,"  said  Flavia  gently,  "I  think  no  one  would  think 
that." 

H7 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"So  I  am  a  monster,  am  I?" 

"You  need  not  be  that,  to  be  difficult  to  approach." 

"Now  what  a  way  to  talk  to  me,  a  father  such  as  I  am ! 
Have  my  children  ever  had  a  harsh  word  from  me?  If 
they  have  had  a  bitter  one,  whose  fault  has  it  been?  Have 
they  ever  heard  me  raise  my  voice,  seen  me  raise  my  hand? 
What  would  they  say  to  an  ordinary  father,  if  I  am  seen 
like  this?" 

"Ordinary  things  are  sometimes  best  in  their  place." 

"No,  they  are  not.  That  is  a  speech  without  a  meaning. 
You  have  thought  of  it  at  this  moment  as  something  clever 
to  say.  Ordinary  things  are  not  as  good  as  things  above  the 
ordinary." 

"I  said  the  best  in  their  place." 

"Things  that  are  best  in  themselves,  are  best  in  any 
place,"  said  Cassius  on  a  triumphant  note.  "Quality 
must  hold  its  own." 

"Yes,  you  do  well,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare,  as  he  went 
to  the  stairs. 

"Poor  Father!"  said  Toby  suddenly. 

"Yes,  poor  Father!"  said  Cassius.  "Toby's  poor  old 
father!   But  Toby  loves  him,  doesn't  he?" 

"No.    Oh,  yes,  poor  Father!" 

"And  Father  loves  his  Toby." 

"Yes,  dear  little  boy." 

"And  dear  Father." 

"No,  dear  Toby." 

"Will  you  two  elder  boys  come  for  a  walk  with  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Guy,  approaching  him. 

"We  were  going  for  a  walk  with  Mother,"  said  Fabian. 

"Well,  which  do  you  want  to  do?" 

"Well,  we  had  arranged  to  go  with  Mother." 

148 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Did  you  know  that,  Guy?"  said  Cassius. 

"No.  Yes.  Yes,  I  did." 

"You  are  as  bad  as  Toby." 

"Or  as  good,"  said  Flavia.  "They  both  tried  to  give 
you  what  you  wanted." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  scraps  of  attention  thrown  to  me,  as 
if  I  were  a  beggar  in  their  path.  What  a  way  to  regard 
their  father!  I  am  content  to  go  my  own  way,  com- 
muning with  myself.   It  may  be  the  best  companionship." 

"It  is  the  only  kind  we  can  have,"  said  Henry. 

"Oh,  you  have  found  that,  have  you?  You  are  in  the 
same  plight  as  I  am.  Alone  amongst  many,  as  is  said." 

"Yes,  that  is  what  it  seems  to  be,  though  I  didn't  know 
people  said  it.  Megan  and  I  have  found  that  our  minds  are 
different." 

"How  would  you  like  to  be  really  alone  as  I  am?" 

"You  and  Grandpa  are  together." 

"Yes,  that  is  what  has  to  be  said  of  me,  a  man  with 
wives  and  children — a  man  with  a  wife  and  family." 

"Isn't  it  a  good  thing  for  you  to  be  with  him?" 

"Yes,  indeed  it  is,  my  dear  old  father!  It  is  the  thing 
that  binds  me  to  life." 

"I  suppose  he  must  die  before  long." 

"Don't  speak  of  it,"  said  Cassius,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
face,  as  though  to  ward  off  a  danger,  and  sending  his 
eyes  to  his  wife  behind  it.  "I  could  only  wish  to  follow 
him." 


149 


CHAPTER   XI 

Ah,  miss  bennet,  we  see  you,"  said  Halliday.  "Open 
the  door  and  come  in  to  us.  You  must  hear  it  all  before 
you  are  at  peace.   Gome  in;  we  understand  it." 

Bennet  seemed  to  wander  to  the  table  and  stood  absently 
fingering  it. 

"So  nothing  really  happened,"  she  said,  the  words 
seeming  to  fall  of  themselves  from  her  lips, 

Ainger,  who  was  sitting  with  his  chin  on  his  hand,  lifted 
his  eyes. 

"Nothing  is  not  the  word  I  should  use,"  he  said,  and  let 
them  fall. 

"Neither  should  I,"  said  Halliday.  "We  need  a 
different  one.  It  is  a  slur  on  the  house,  the  master  stooping 
to  this." 

"That  may  not  be  the  way  to  see  it,"  said  Kate.  "It 
might  argue  a  want  in  us." 

"And  no  reason  but  discontent  with  a  life  that  is  better 
than  ours." 

'*We  have  not  the  insight  into  things." 

"I  blame  myself,"  said  Ainger,  seeming  to  stifle  a  sigh. 

"Well,  no  one  else  blames  you,"  said  Halliday.  "What 
was  it  to  do  with  you?" 

Ainger  lifted  his  eyes  and  rested  them  on  Halliday's 
face. 

"My  poor  master!"  he  said,  and  said  no  more. 

"And  'poor  man',  it  seems." 

150 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,"  said  Ainger,  quietly.  "There  is  no  sting  like  self- 
reproach." 

"And  what  do  you  reproach  yourself  for?" 

"Events  cast  shadows  before.  I  ought  to  have  foretold 
it." 

"Foretold  the  actual  thing?"  said  Bennet. 

"Perceived  the  signs.  They  ought  to  have  put  me  on  my 
guard.  It  was  in  my  power  to  disperse  them,  as  I  had  done 
before.  But  I  went  on  my  own  way,  blind  to  his  need.  I 
have  to  say  it  of  myself." 

"You  could  not  watch  him  as  if  he  were  a  child,"  said 
Kate. 

"It  is  what  I  have  always  done,"  said  Ainger,  almost 
giving  a  smile. 

"Well,  it  was  time  you  stopped,"  said  Halliday. 

"And  it  seems  that  he  thought  so,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Does  the  master  hold  it  against  you?"  said  Kate. 

"It  is  a  question,  Kate.  I  have  asked  it  of  myself.  1 
seem  to  catch  a  look  in  his  eye,  that  speaks  to  me  and  says  I 
should  have  saved  him  from  himself." 

"He  cuts  a  sorry  figure,"  said  Halliday. 

"And  he  was  prepared  to  leave  his  father  desolate,"  said 
Kate,  as  if  continuing  the  thought. 

"Now  that  is  what  strikes  one,"  said  Ainger.  "That  is 
the  dark  point.  The  hearts  of  the  two  gentlemen  are  knit 
to  each  other.  I  should  not  have  expected  the  pitilessness. 
Things  were  indeed  too  much." 

"It  seems  there  was  intervention,"  said  Kate. 

"It  does  seem  so,  Kate.  That  he  was  frustrated  by  a 
higher  hand.  By  his  own  he  would  have  left  us.  It 
chanced  that  he  resisted  the  fatal  amount.  The  doctor 
would  have  been  too  late." 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"His  time  had  not  come,"  said  Kate.  **So  it  is  not  for 
us  to  decide." 

"He  must  be  a  strong  man,"  said  Bennet. 

"I  should  hardly  say  so,"  said  Ainger.  "That  is  more 
for  the  outward  eye.  It  vanishes  with  understanding.  I 
should  say  I  am  the  stronger  of  the  two." 

"Can't  you  think  of  yourself  apart  from  him?"  said 
Halliday. 

"Well,  we  are  not  so  often  apart." 

"You  talk  as  if  you  had  no  work  to  do." 

"He  is  the  main  part  of  it,  and  becomes  more  so.  He 
knows  it  and  keeps  it  in  his  heart.  That  is  the  real  reason 
for  Simon's  presence." 

"You  expect  to  become  knit  closer?"  said  Kate. 

"Or  are  arranging  it,"  said  Halliday. 

"Well,  nothing  stands  still  in  this  world,"  said  Ainger. 

"It  usually  seems  that  everything  does,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"How  does  Simon  get  on?"  said  Bennet,  looking  at  the 
latter  in  experienced  kindness. 

"He  shapes,"  said  Ainger.  "And  that  is  all  that  is 
required  at  the  moment." 

"Until  the  master  absorbs  all  your  energy,"  said  Madge. 

"Until  then,  if  you  like." 

"There  will  be  a  wound  in  Mr.  Clare's  heart  that  time 
will  not  heal,"  said  Kate. 

"Time  won't  have  much  chance  at  his  age,"  said 
Halliday. 

"To  leave  his  grey  hairs  to  go  down  to  the  grave!"  said 
Kate,  shaking  her  head.   "Was  it  a  son's  part?" 

"A  son's  part  has  been  done,"  said  Ainger.  "I  stand  as 
a  witness  to  it.  Whatever  has  been  left  undone,  it  has  not 
been  that." 

152 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Does  the  master  love  his  father  better  than  his  wife?" 
said  Simon. 

"It  is  not  for  you  to  gauge  affections,"  said  Ainger,  "or 
to  introduce  the  family  under  relationships." 

"On  which  side  does  your  sympathy  He,  Mr.  Ainger?" 
said  Kate. 

"Kate,  I  will  admit  it.  On  the  master's.  It  may  not  be 
the  right  one  or  the  one  favoured  by  the  many,  but  it  is 
mine.   I  follow  an  instinct.    It  is  the  guide." 

"The  mistress  has  done  her  best." 

"And  wholeheartedly  I  admit  it.  No  one  gives  the 
mistress  fuller  credit  than  I.  She  has  striven  to  her  utmost. 
I  am  in  a  position  to  judge,  as  in  a  sense  we  work  to- 
gether." 

"And  what  would  you  say  for  the  master?" 

"I  would  say  nothing.  There  is  nothing  to  be  said. 
But  the  heart  does  not  follow  the  head's  dictates.  My  eye 
goes  after  him  as  if  he  were  my  child." 

"He  is  old  enough  to  be  your  father,"  said  Madge. 

"No,  there  is  not  so  much  between  us.  A  matter  of  a 
dozen  years.   It  is  more  the  distance  of  an  eider  brother." 

"That  is  not  your  basis,"  said  Halliday, 

"It  is  not,"  said  Ainger,  smiling.  "I  am  rather  in  the 
position  of  the  elder  myself" 

"And  you  are  in  another  position  too." 

"And  I  hope  I  fulfil  it,  Halliday.  I  should  think  the  less 
of  myself,  if  I  did  not.  And  I  ask  no  other.  It  is  a  position 
of  trust." 

"Then  we  are  all  in  one,"  said  Madge. 

"Wholeheartedly  I  admit  it,  Madge,"  said  Ainger. 

"Perhaps  my  distance  is  that  of  an  elder  sister,"  said 
Mrs.  Frost. 

153 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Now  we  will  not  go  through  the  whole  gamut,"  said 
Ainger. 

"Now  that  you  have  dealt  with  your  own  part  in  it." 

"Well,  I  think  I  have  a  right  to,  Mrs.  Frost,"  said 
Ainger,  looking  at  her  frankly.   "It  is  one  by  itself." 

"What  is  Simon's  distance?"  said  Bennet,  smiling. 

"My  words  may  apply  in  Simon's  case.  Miss  Bennet," 
said  Ainger. 

"The  children  are  fonder  of  the  mistress  than  the 
master,"  said  Kate. 

"I  endorse  it,  Kate.  And  it  is  true  of  the  elder  young 
gentlemen.  And  the  tribute  to  the  mistress  speaks.  I  wish 
sometimes  that  their  hearts  would  turn  to  their  father. 
His  is  open  to  them,  if  they  knew.  But  if  they  did,  he 
would  do  something  to  repel  them;  he  is  driven  by  some- 
thing within.  He  is  master  of  everyone  in  the  house  but 
himself." 

"I  am  tired  of  talking  about  him,"  said  Halliday. 

"Then  we  will  drop  the  subject,"  said  Ainger,  in  a 
pleasant  tone. 

"I  will  resume  it,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.  "Is  he  ashamed  of 
what  he  has  done?" 

Ainger  smiled  to  himself. 

"Does  silence  mean  consent?"  said  Kate. 

"It  does  not,"  said  Ainger.   "The  opposite  is  implied." 

"What  has  he  to  be  proud  of?"  said  Halliday. 

"I  don't  know,  Halliday.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that 
he  has  anything." 

"He  is  not  proud  of  this  business?" 

"I  would  not  say  he  is  not.  I  said  he  was  in  some  re- 
spects a  child." 

"It  must  have  taken  courage,"  said  Kate. 

154 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Courage  or  cowardice?"  said  Ainger,  lifting  his  brows. 
"It  must  be  a  moot  point." 

"It  may  be  both,"  said  Kate. 

"I  call  it  courage,"  said  Bennet.  "I  should  never  dare  to 
do  it." 

"Then  of  course  you  call  it  courage,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 
"It  is  only  right." 

"There  is  something  in  it,"  said  Ainger.  "To  go  alone 
into  the  dark !  I  don't  see  myself  doing  it,  though  I  have 
the  courage  to  face  life." 

"It  is  strange  that  we  all  have  it,"  said  Kate. 

"I  do  admire  myself,"  said  Madge. 

"Well,  we  know  that,"  said  Halliday. 

"The  round  and  task,"  said  Ainger.  "There  may  be 
more  in  them  than  we  know." 

"There  is  not  any  more,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Ah,  that  is  where  the  courage  may  lie." 

"What  next?"  said  Halliday.  "You  will  soon  think  it 
needs  courage  to  sit  down  to  your  meals." 

"Well,  who  shall  say?"  said  Ainger. 

"I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.   "It  needs  none." 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Ainger.  "Meals  may  be  a  crucial 
point.  I  am  often  glad  I  do  not  sit  down  to  those  in  the 
dining-room.    It  is  enough  to  be  a  witness  of  them." 

"It  may  be  well  to  see  how  matters  lie,"  said  Kate. 

"Essential  is  the  word,  Kate.  It  helps  me  to  deal  with 
them  afterwards.  Breakfast  is  often  the  key  to  my  day." 

"And  to  theirs  too,  I  suppose,"  said  Madge. 

"To  theirs  too,  Madge.  We  need  not  pursue  the  point. 
But  I  watch  the  signs  with  an  anxious  eye.  I  often  stand 
behind  that  table  with  my  heart  standing  still  and  my 
blood  running  cold." 

155 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  does  Simon  do  the  same?"  said  Bennet. 

"He  may  speak  for  himself,"  said  Ainger. 

"No,"  said  Simon.    "They  usually  seem  to  be  polite." 

"Polite!"  said  Ainger.  "I  prefer  any  other  sign.  If  there 
is  any  sort  of  outlet,  the  air  may  clear.  I  know  what  my 
day  is  going  to  be,  by  the  time  I  carry  out  those  trays." 

"How  did  you  feel  when  you  thought  the  master  might 
die?"  said  Madge. 

"1  will  express  it  in  a  word,  Madge.  It  is  a  good  thing 
the  suspense  was  short." 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  glad  or  sorry  to  be  well  again." 

"Sorry,  if  he  knows  his  own  mind,"  said  Halliday. 

"I  should  not  wish  him  to  do  that,"  said  Ainger.  "It 
would  be  to  wish  him  not  himself.  I  must  try  to  give  him 
hope." 

"It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  do  that  before." 

"I  have  said  that  I  blame  myself." 

"So  you  are  not  to  blame  any  longer,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"People  tend  to  the  view,"  said  Kate. 

"Then  there  are  exceptions  to  the  rule,"  said  Ainger,  in 
a  quiet  tone. 

"Are  the  signs  of  low  spirits  easy  to  read?"  said  Kate. 

"Signs  were  wanting,"  said  Ainger,  in  a  deeper  tone. 
"He  contrived  not  to  give  them.  It  is  a  point  I  do  not 
miss.   It  shows  the  scope  of  the  resolve." 

"He  must  be  in  a  shamefaced  mood." 

"No,"  said  Ainger,  shaking  his  head  with  a  smile,  "he 
is  lying  on  the  sofa  as  if  he  were  suffering  from  con- 
valescence. And  I  cannot  look  at  that  sofa  without  a 
shudder,  and  the  thought  of  him  being  carried  away  from 
it,  white  and  still.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  own  face  in 
the  glass,  and  it  was  the  colour  of  a  sheet." 

156 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"So  you  remembered  to  look  at  yourself  as  well  as  at 
him,"  said  Halliday. 

"It  is  a  providence  that  I  bethought  myself  to  enter  the 
room,"  went  on  Ainger,  as  if  he  had  not  heard.  "I  pass 
over  the  shock  to  myself.   It  is  a  thing  to  be  disposed  of." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  do  it  again?"  said  Madge. 

"I  do  not.  I  have  his  word.  I  bethought  myself  to 
exact  it." 

"I  should  think  Mr.  Clare  would  keep  the  tablets  away 
from  him,"  said  Bennet. 

"He  may,"  said  Ainger.   "He  may  scorn  to  do  so." 

"When  did  you  see  the  master?"  said  Simon. 

"I  have  had  free  access  to  him  all  the  time." 

"You  did  not  seem  to  avail  yourself  of  it?"  said  Halliday. 

Ainger  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 

"Halliday,  he  lay  unconscious." 

"Were  you  able  to  say  a  word  to  him,  when  he  was  in 
the  shadow?"  said  Kate. 

"I  tried  to  lighten  that  passage  for  him,  as  I  hope  some- 
one will  one  day  do  it  for  me." 

"You  talk  as  if  he  had  died,"  said  Halliday. 

"The  outcome  was  veiled  in  doubt." 

"He  was  in  the  valley,"  said  Kate. 

"How  does  Mr.  Clare  take  it?"  said  Bennet. 

"As  hard  as  would  be  expected.  We  have  exchanged  a 
word.  But  it  is  a  case  where  feelings  lie  beyond." 

"So  you  have  had  the  position  of  general  supporter," 
said  Halliday. 

"And  little  as  accrues  to  me  from  it,  I  ask  no  other." 

"What  was  the  master's  complaint  against  life?"  said 
Kate. 

"Life  itself,"  said  Ainger,  in  a  deep  tone. 

'57 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"What  does  the  mistress  say  to  all  of  it?" 

"Nothing  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  We  are  not  on  the 
terms.  She  maintains  her  distance,  as  she  has  a  right. 
The  gentlemen  decide  to  ignore  it." 

"Does  she  feel  it  rebounds  on  her?"  said  Kate. 

"She  has  given  no  sign,  nor  not  to  me.  It  is  not  her 
tendency." 

"How  soon  will  the  master  be  well?"  said  Madge. 

"He  is  able  to  talk  to-day,"  said  Bennet.  "Mrs.  Clare 
and  his  father  are  with  him  in  the  library.  The  children 
are  to  go  later." 

"He  would  have  something  to  listen  to,  if  I  were  in  their 
place,"  said  Halliday. 

"Halliday,  how  your  thoughts  run  on  common  hues!" 
said  Ainger,  seeming  to  control  himself  by  an  effort. 

"We  can  imagine  the  scene,"  said  Bennet,  her  tone 
recognising  the  limits  of  this  method. 

"I  could  be  the  first  to  do  so,"  said  Ainger,  "and  in 
consequence  am  the  last  who  wishes  to.   I  feel  the  recoil." 

The  scene  was  in  progress  at  the  moment,  and  was  out- 
wardly as  was  said.  Cassius  lay  on  the  couch,  and  his 
father  and  his  wife  stood  by  him.  It  was  the  first  occasion 
when  talk  could  take  its  normal  course. 

"Well,  we  cannot  congratulate  you  on  your  recovery, 
my  boy.   It  is  the  opposite  of  what  you  hoped." 

"I  hope  you  congratulate  yourselves  on  it,"  said  Cassius, 
in  a  weak  voice.  "For  myself,  I  begin  to  see  that  life  has 
its  claims." 

"Begin  to  see  it!  Then  you  took  your  time  about 
arranging  to  get  out  of  it," 

"We  have  to  stay  where  our  lot  is  cast." 

"That  was  not  your  view,"  said  his  wife. 

158 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Ah,  Flavia,  I  am  hardly  in  the  mood  for  that  tone 
to-day.  Things  were  somehow  too  much  for  me.  I  must 
learn  to  see  them  differently." 

"They  will  not  be  different,"  said  Mr.  Clare.  "It  is  a 
long  habit  to  break." 

"Does  an  attempt  to  escape  from  life  give  you  a  hold  on 
it?"  said  Flavia.  "It  seems  a  method  that  might  defeat 
itself." 

"Ah,  Flavia,  you  are  yourself,"  said  Cassius.  "And  you 
do  not  remember  that  the  same  cannot  be  said  of  me." 

"What  was  your  reason  for  doing  it,  Cassius?" 

"I  felt  that  life  had  little  to  give  me,  and  that  no  one 
wanted  what  I  had  to  give.  It  seemed  to  be  time  for  my 
place  to  know  me  no  more." 

"Did  you  spare  a  thought  to  the  rest  of  us?"  said  Mr, 
Clare. 

"I  did,  my  dear  old  father.  I  can  tell  you  my  actual 
thought.  It  was  that  you  and  I  would  soon  be  united, 
and  that  no  one  else  had  need  of  me." 

"You  may  have  had  a  grievance,"  said  his  wife.  "But 
not  great  enough  to  drive  you  to  your  death." 

"You  hardly  seem  serious,  Flavia.  Is  it  not  a  serious 
thing?" 

"I  am  trying  to  find  out  what  it  is." 

"It  is  as  I  have  told  you.  I  will  not  cry  to  estimate  it. 
I  may  be  a  person  whose  hold  on  life  is  light." 

"There  is  something  about  it  I  do  not  understand.  I 
have  no  choice  but  to  pursue  it." 

"No  choice  but  to  harass  and  harry  me?"  said  Cassius, 
gently. 

"None  but  to  try  and  discover  your  reason  for  what  you 
did." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"To  be  without  heart  and  hope  is  reason  enough." 
"Not  for  many  of  us,  and  not  for  you.    I  am  not  a 

stranger  to  you." 

"My  poor  wife,  that  is  just  what  you  are.  It  is  what  you 

have  always  been.   How  clearly  I  see  it!   It  did  not  make 

me  less  alone." 

"What  was  in  your  mind?    Or  what  was  on  it?    I  ask 

you  to  tell  me  the  truth." 

"I  am  not  the  hero  of  a  detective  story,  Flavia." 
"You  need  not  be  so  longer  than  you  like,"  said  Mr. 

Clare. 

"You  cannot  face  the  truth,"  said  Cassius,  looking  at 

his  wife.    "You  know  it  and  will  not  accept  it.    There  is 

no  more  to  be  said." 

"More  will  be  said  and  more  will  be  thought.   You 

are  right  that  I  do  not  accept  your  account  as  the  true 

one. 

"Do  you  accept  it,  Father?   Do  you  take  my  word?" 
"I  do  not  expect  you  to  tell  us  what  you  are  keeping  to 

yourself,  my  boy.    What  is  the  truth  about  one  thing? 

Are  you  glad  you  failed  to  do  your  work?" 

"I  may  get  to  be  glad,"  said  Cassius,  wearily.   "This  is 

not  the  way  to  make  me  so.   I  did  not  expect  these  deal- 
ings.   I  was  not  prepared  for  an  attack.    I  see  it  is  easier 

to  face  death  than  to  face  life." 

"Well,  life  presents  many  problems,  and  death  none. 

But  it  has  not  been  your  way  to  be  overset  by  them." 
"You  do  not  know  how  I  have  met  them." 
"I  know  as  much  about  you  as  you  do  yourself,  my  boy." 
"It  is  as  true  of  you  as  it  can  be  of  anyone.  But  we  go  by 

ourselves  through  life.   If  anyone  has  saved  me  from  it,  it 

is  you." 

1 60 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"There  will  be  other  people  in  the  next  world,  if  your 
theories  are  true,"  said  Flavia. 

"They  will  have  cast  off  their  mortal  guise,  and  with 
them  their  mortal  qualities." 

"I  should  not  relinquish  my  resolve  to  pursue  the  truth 
about  this." 

"I  suppose  you  cannot  imagine  hopelessness?" 

"I  think  I  can,  though  I  have  not  experienced  it.  But 
have  you  done  either,  Gassius?" 

"So  you  know  me  no  better  than  that,  after  nine  years?" 

"After  that  time  I  know  you  as  well  as  that." 

"After  fifty-two  years  I  do  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 

"We  are  unfamiliar  with  this  new  guise,"  said  Flavia. 

"Perhaps  the  other  was  a  guise,"  said  Gassius.  "Perhaps 
you  are  seeing  my  real  self  for  the  first  time." 

"No,  no,"  said  his  fiather,  "the  other  would  have  be- 
come real  by  now.  And  what  reason  had  you  to  hide 
yourself?   You  saw  none." 

"Well,  this  is  leading  us  nowhere." 

"That  is  the  fault  we  find  with  it,"  said  Flavia.  "But  it 
will  lead  us  somewhere  in  the  end." 

"I  cannot  help  you  any  more." 

"It  may  be  true,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Glare.  "You  are 
not  able  to  bring  yourself  to  it.  And  you  would  have  a 
right  to  keep  your  own  counsel,  if  your  actions  affected 
no  one  else." 

"There  is  no  mystery,"  said  Gassius. 

"That  is  the  word,"  said  his  father. 

"Well,  have  it  as  you  will.   There  is  some  dark  secret." 

"Those  words  will  do  as  well." 

"The  secret  may  not  be  so  dark,"  said  Flavia.  "Things 
become  so  when  kept  in  darkness." 

i6i 


THE    PRESENT    AND     THE    PAST 

Cassius  compared  his  watch  with  the  clock  on  the 
chimney-piece  and  glanced  at  the  door.  Sounds  were 
heard  outside. 

"Did  you  arrange  for  the  children  to  come?"  said  his 
wife. 

"Yes,"  said  Cassius,  looking  again  at  the  watch,  as  if 
to  chezk  their  exactitude. 

"So  that  your  interview  with  us  should  not  be  too 
long?" 

"I  knew  how  much  I  could  stand,"  said  Cassius,  simply. 
"Well,  so  you  have  all  come  to  see  your  father.  You 
know  he  has  been  ill?" 

"No,  Toby  has,"  said  the  latter. 

"He  was  upset  this  morning,"  said  Megan. 

"Poor  little  boy!"  said  Toby,  looking  at  his  father. 

"Yes,  poor  little  Toby !  But  Father  has  been  worse  than 
that." 

"No,  Father  better  now." 

"Toby  can  run  about,"  said  Cassius,  "and  Father  has 
to  lie  on  the  sofa." 

Toby  laid  his  head  down  on  this  support,  and  watched 
his  father  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  for  a  model  of 
invalid  deportment. 

"Quite  well  now,"  he  said,  looking  up.  "Father  and 
Toby." 

"No,  Father  will  not  be  well  yet." 

Toby  resignedly  replaced  his  head. 

"What  is  the  name  of  your  illness?"  said  Henry  to 
Cassius. 

"It  is  something  you  would  not  understand." 

"But  it  must  have  a  name.  The  doctor  must  have 
called  it  something." 

162 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  think  it  would  now  be  called  general  weakness  and 
depression." 

"But  what  was  it  at  first?" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?  The  name  does  not  make 
much  difference." 

"I  want  to  tell  people  about  it,  when  they  say  it  was  not 
an  illness." 

"What  do  they  say  it  was?" 

"That  does  not  matter,  if  I  can  tell  them  the  name. 
The  weakness  was  just  the  ending  of  it." 

"The  after  effects,"  said  Megan. 

"Poor  Father  very  sad,"  said  Toby,  without  raising  his 
head.   "Very  sad  and  want  to  die.   But  wake  up  again." 

"Do  people  say  that?"  said  Cassius. 

"We  heard  them  saying  things,"  said  Megan.  "They 
didn't  mean  us  to  hear.  And  we  didn't  know  they  would 
say  them." 

"But  you  knew  no  better  than  to  listen?" 

"We  were  not  listening,"  said  Henry.  "Megan  told 
you  that  we  heard.  But  I  daresay  we  might  have  listened. 
There  isn't  anyone  who  wouldn't  have,  when  it  was  a 
thing  like  that." 

"Why  were  you  as  sad  as  that?"  said  Megan. 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you  the  reasons.  I  hope  you  will 
never  be  so  sad." 

"Everyone  is  sad  sometimes,"  said  Henry.  "But  they 
don't  do  what  you  did.  Will  you  be  put  in  prison?" 

"No,  of  course  I  shall  not." 

"I  thought  that  to  kill  yourself  was  against  the  law." 

"There  is  no  need  to  use  such  words.  This  was  not 
much  more  than  a  mistake." 

"Do  you  mean  you  did  it  by  accident?" 

163 


THK    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing." 

"Then  perhaps  it  would  not  count.  Perhaps  you  were 
delirious.  People  didn't  know  it  was  like  that.  They 
thought  you  meant  to  do  it." 

"If  I  had  done  a  good  action,  no  one  would  have  heard 
of  it,"  said  Cassius,  looking  round. 

"They  would  certainly  have  had  less  opportunity,"  said 
Mr.  Clare.   "It  would  have  made  less  talk." 

"Have  you  ever  done  one?"  said  Henry.  "You  know  I 
don't  mean  you  haven't.   I  just  wanted  to  know." 

"I  suppose  so  from  time  to  time.   Have  you?" 

"Well,  I  don't  think  so.   I  can't  think  of  one." 

"Well,  I  declare,  neither  can  I,"  said  Cassius,  half- 
laughing.  "I  declare  that  I  can't.  But  I  suppose  I  can 
hardly  have  gone  through  life  without  doing  something 
for  somebody." 

"People  generally  count  supporting  their  children,"  said 
Megan. 

"Well;  I  do  not.  That  does  not  put  me  apart  from  other 
men." 

"And  your  good  action  must  do  that?"  said  Mr.  Clare. 
"You  would  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone." 

The  elder  boys  had  entered  the  room,  and  Fabian  came 
up  to  his  father. 

"We  have  been  fortunate,  Father,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand.  "I  am  so  thankful,  and  so  is  everyone.  We 
could  not  have  spared  you." 

Cassius  took  the  hand  and  sent  his  eyes  over  his  son's 
face.   Guy  came  and  stood  by  his  brother. 

"You  said  you  had  never  done  a  good  action,"  he 
said,  in  a  hurried,  even  tone.  "But  you  let  Mother 
come  and  see  us,  and  changed  things  for  us  all.    And 

164 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

you  let  her  go  on  coming.    It  does  put  you  apart  from 
other  men." 

"Did  your  mother  tell  you  to  say  these  things?" 

"She  did  not  tell  us  what  to  say,"  said  Fabian. 

"Then  I  congratulate  you  in  my  turn.  You  have  done 
well.  You  may  tell  your  mother  that  from  me." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"You  did  not  tell  your  son  to  make  a  speech?"  said 
Cassius  to  Flavia. 

"No,  I  leave  him  to  depend  on  himself." 

"What  he  said  was  certainly  different." 

"Which  kind  of  approach  do  you  prefer?" 

"You  made  a  beautiful  speech,  my  boy,"  said  Cassius, 
suddenly  to  Guy.  "You  brought  comfort  to  your  father 
when  he  needed  it.  You  have  made  him  proud  of  you, 
and  so  has  your  brother.  I  am  a  happier  man,  and  I  had 
need  of  happiness." 

Toby  ran  up  and  stood  ready  to  share  in  the  compli- 
ments. 

"And  Toby  is  a  comfort  to  Father  by  being  himself." 

"And  Henry  and  Megan,"  said  Toby,  with  an  em- 
bracing gesture.   "And  Bennet  and  Eliza  and  Mother." 

"What  would  have  happened  to  us,  if  you  had  died?" 
said  Henry.  "This  house  would  have  belonged  to 
Fabian;  so  we  should  still  have  had  a  home.  But  would 
other  things  have  been  different?" 

"And  Ainger  and  William,"  added  Toby. 

"Would  you  not  have  found  that  losing  me  made  a 
difference?"  said  Cassius,  looking  at  his  son. 

"Yes,  but  I  knew  about  that." 

"So  that  is  how  you  talked,  when  you  thought  I  might 
be  going  to  die." 

165 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  we  couldn't  have  helped  it,  if  you  had,"  said 
Megan.  "We  shouldn't  have  had  to  feel  ashamed  about 
it.  That  is  unfair  when  people  haven't  done  anything. 
And  when  a  thing  is  done  on  purpose,  it  isn't  even 
sad." 

"It  is  sad  that  anyone  should  want  to  do  such  a  thing." 

"Not  if  he  wanted  to  when  he  had  an  ordinary  life.  If 
he  had  had  pain  or  sorrow,  it  would  be  different." 

"Life  itself  can  be  a  sorrow,  my  child." 

"Only  because  of  what  is  in  it.  We  are  supposed  to  like 
life  itself.  Will  you  be  happier  now  you  have  done  this? 
Your  life  won't  be  any  different." 

"I  shall  be  more  resigned.  And  I  hope  my  life  will  be  a 
little  different.  I  hope  something  will  come  out  of  it,  that 
will  make  it  so.  And  I  must  remember  what  you  say,  and 
try  to  hke  hfe  itself." 

"Toby  said  it,"  said  Toby,  coming  up  with  something 
in  his  hands. 

"What  have  you  there?"  said  Gassius. 

Toby  displayed  a  box  containing  various  objects. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  box?" 

"Open  drawer,"  said  his  son. 

"Go  and  put  it  back  again  and  shut  the  drawer." 

"No,"  said  Toby. 

"Do  as  Father  tells  you  at  once." 

"Bottle,"  said  Toby,  making  a  selection  from  the  box. 

"He  will  break  it,"  said  Megan. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Toby,  his  voice  quavering  into  mirth. 
"Only  hold  it.  When  it  break,  can't  help  it,  poor  little 
boy." 

Gassius  reached  towards  the  bottle,  but  desisted  and 
drummed  his  fingers  on  the  couch. 

i66 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Give  the  bottle  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Glare.  "It  is  mine, 
and  I  have  my  use  for  it." 

"Rattle  it,"  said  his  grandson. 

"No,  it  is  almost  empty.    It  will  not  make  any  noise." 

Toby  showed  that  this  was  not  the  case,  and  his  grand- 
father stood  with  his  eyes  on  it.  A  change  seemed  to 
come  into  the  room.  It  seemed  that  time  was  standing 
still.  Mr.  Glare  and  Flavia  met  each  other's  eyes,  and  the 
former  took  the  bottle  and  emptied  it  on  his  hand. 

"Seven  tablets!  And  there  were  eleven  there.  So  you 
took  four,  my  son." 

His  unusual  ending  gave  weight  to  his  words. 

"Yes,  I  took  four,"  said  Gassius,  going  into  deliberate 
mirth.  "Enough  to  make  me  unconscious  and  to  do  no 
more.  But  it  did  a  good  deal  more.  It  has  done  its  work. 
And  I  should  not  like  to  face  it  again,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
began  to  think  I  should  breathe  my  last.  I  almost  had  the 
experience  I  was  supposed  to  have  had.  I  thought  my 
last  hour  had  come.  But  I  played  a  proper  trick  on  all  of 
you.  The  weak  point  was  that  I  played  it  on  myself  as 
well.  You  need  not  think  I  did  not  suffer  for  what  I  did,  if 
that  is  any  comfort  to  you.  If  four  tablets  did  that,  ten 
would  indeed  have  done  the  whole." 

"Well,  we  knew  that,"  said  his  father. 

"And  if  you  all  say  it  served  me  right,  I  say  the  same  to 
you,"  said  Gassius,  his  tones  swelling.  "You  deserved  to 
think  you  had  driven  me  to  my  death,  when  you  had  done 
all  you  could  to  empty  my  life.  It  was  the  right  and  fair 
return;  it  was  poetic  justice.  So  I  don't  want  any  solemn 
faces  or  speaking  silences  or  exchange  of  glances.  Things 
are  fair  and  square  between  us,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"There  is  also  a  beginning,"  said  Flavia.    "Another 

167 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

conception  of  you,  a  mistrust  of  what  you  say  and  do,  a 
question  of  your  presentation  of  yourself.  A  difference  that 
will  go  through  our  lives  and  die  with  us." 

"And  have  you  had  so  much  trust  in  me?  There  has 
been  little  sign  of  it.  We  cannot  lose  what  we  have  never 
had.   I  have  not  to  face  much  there." 

"Did  Father  pretend  he  had  taken  more  pills  than  he 
had?"  said  Megan. 

"He  did,  my  child.  That  is  what  he  pretended,"  said 
Cassius,  going  into  further  mirth.  "And  he  does  not  regret 
it.  And  he  hopes  you  will  never  be  driven  to  a  like  course, 
and  that  if  you  are,  you  will  achieve  more  by  it." 

"I  don't  understand  why  you  did  it,  or  what  you  wanted 
to  achieve." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Henry. 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Flavia. 

"No,"  said  Cassius,  looking  at  them.  "You  would  not 
understand.  The  heart  can  only  know  itself." 

"You  let  me  know  some  of  it,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"I  did,  my  dear  old  father.  And  what  I  should  have 
done  without  your  listening  ear  I  do  not  know." 

"You  could  hardly  have  done  more  than  you  have." 

"I  could  have  done  the  whole  thing." 

"No,  you  could  not,  being  as  you  are.  We  can  only  act 
according  to  ourselves." 

"I  really  thought  of  it." 

"We  are  not  talking  of  thoughts.  They  cover  a  wide 
ground." 

"You  are  a  strange  man,  Cassius,"  said  Flavia.  "I  see 
I  have  not  known  you." 

"And  you  are  a  strange  woman.  And  I  have  always 
known  you.   And  now  I  know  you  better." 

1 68 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"You  have  put  yourself  in  a  class  apart." 

"No,  I  have  not.  I  have  put  myself  in  the  class  of  weak, 
erring  mortals  to  which  we  all  belong,  to  which  you  belong 
yourself  I  am  not  removed  from  you  by  a  single  act. 
What  about  you.  who  drove  me  to  it?  What  should  be 
said  of  that?  No,  you  are  not  to  go,  children.  I  refuse  to 
be  left  alone  with  this  woman.  Father  does  not  want  to  be 
left  alone  with  Mater."  Gassius  changed  his  tone  and  put 
his  hand  on  Toby's  head.  "She  is  vexed  with  him  and  makes 
him  afraid  of  her.  Toby  must  stay  and  take  care  of  him." 

Toby  placed  himself  in  front  of  his  father  and  looked 
round  in  challenge,  and  Flavia  glanced  at  him  and  looked 
away. 

"I  think  Mother  is  in  the  hall,"  said  Fabian.  "She  was 
coming  to  see  us  to-day.  May  we  go  out  to  her.  Father?" 

"You  must  ask  Mater  that,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 

"Mater  always  lets  us  see  her." 

"Ask  her  in;  ask  her  in,"  said  Gassius.  "We  have 
nothing  to  hide.  She  may  as  well  hear  what  she  must 
hear  in  the  end,  and  hear  the  truth  instead  of  some  dis- 
tortion of  it.  Let  her  swell  the  chorus  of  my  judges. 
Gome  in,  Gatherine,  and  join  them  in  their  verdict  on 
me.  I  know  you  and  Flavia  have  but  one  thought 
between  you." 

"They  do  not  need  more  than  one  for  this  matter,"  said 
Mr.  Glare. 

"Well,  Gatherine,  what  have  you  heard  of  me?  You 
need  not  be  afraid  to  say.  I  am  not  used  to  being  spared." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"I  heard  that  you  found  things  too  much.  I  heard  that 
you  tried  to  end  them." 

"Well,  well,  it  was  not  quite  that,"  said  Gassius,  with 

169 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

another  sound  of  mirth  and  his  eyes  turned  aside.  "I 
hardly  know  how  to  tell  you.  I  have  put  myself  in  an 
awkward  place.  You  may  think  in  almost  a  ridiculous 
one;  I  can  understand  that  view.  Or  rather  it  is  chance 
that  has  done  it;  I  thought  things  out  myself.  Ask  Flavia 
to  tell  you.  You  would  rather  hear  it  from  her.  And  she 
can  put  things  in  a  word  better  than  I  can." 

"No,  it  is  your  own  history,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 
"No  one  else  can  tell  it  from  the  first." 

"Well,  then,  I  did  not  take  the  full  dose,"  said  Cassius, 
looking  in  front  of  him  and  speaking  easily.  "Only  enough 
to  make  me  unconscious  and  do  no  more.  1  thought  of 
taking  it,  and  then  the  will  to  live,  or  the  impulse  of  life, 
or  whatever  it  was,  checked  me  and  led  me  to  a  com- 
promise. Compromise;  yes,  that  is  the  word.  And  I 
carried  it  through.  I  did  not  fail  in  my  purpose.  I  hood- 
winked my  father  and  my  wife.  And  they  are  not  easy 
people  to  deceive;  you  must  have  found  that.  I  mean 
you  would  understand  it.  They  accepted  the  whole  thing. 
And  upon  my  word  I  was  near  to  accepting  it  myself.  It 
was  a  dire  experience,  recovering  from  that  trance.  I  find 
myself  feeling  I  have  had  a  narrow  escape.  I  find  myself 
in  a  mood  of  thankfulness.  It  shows  how  near  I  was  to 
the  actual  thing." 

"It  surely  shows  your  distance  from  it,"  said  Flavia. 
"Well,  you  ought  to  be  glad  of  that.    It  ought  to  be  a 
relief  to  you.    You  don't  seem  to  have  taken  any  lesson 
from  what  I  have  done." 

"But  you  seem  to  have  taken  one  yourself,"  said  Mr. 
Clare.   "And  it  is  you  who  needed  it." 

"And  you  have  not  done  it,  Cassius,"  said  Flavia.   "We 
cannot  go  so  far  from  the  facts." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

*'Did  you  confess  the  truth?"  said  Catherine  to  Cassius, 
in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  come  from  their  Hfe  together. 

"Go  on  with  your  tale,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Glare.  "It  is 
no  one  else's." 

"Well,  no,  I  did  not,"  said  Gassius,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"I  meant  to  carry  the  matter  through  and  let  the  decep- 
tion do  its  work.  And  I  hope  in  a  measure  it  has  done  it. 
But  Toby  found  the  bottle  with  the  tablets  that  were  left, 
and  the  number  told  their  tale  and  exposed  his  father." 

"You  put  it  well,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 

"Yes,  well,  I  can  put  things  into  words  when  I  like," 
said  his  son,  in  a  modest  tone.  "I  can  express  myself 
when  there  is  need.  I  seem  to  be  able  to.  I  don't  know  if 
it  is  true  of  everyone." 

"No  one  must  talk  of  this  outside  the  house,"  said 
Flavia. 

"No,  it  would  swell  to  all  kinds  of  proportions,"  said 
Gassius,  as  if  not  averse  to  the  idea.  "I  should  be  said  to 
have  put  an  end  to  myself  ten  times  over." 

"You  would  be  said  to  have  tried  to  do  so  once,"  said 
Mr.  Glare.  "No  doubt  you  will  be.  And  it  is  at  once 
better  and  worse  than  the  truth." 

"The  subject  will  be  rife  in  the  place  for  the  next  weeks," 
said  his  son.  "Then  it  will  die  away.  One  cannot  expect 
to  be  a  hero — to  be  on  people's  tongues  for  ever.  It  will 
remain  with  me,  as  our  moments  of  danger  do  remain. 
And  it  was  a  moment  of  danger,  Flavia,  however  much  you 
look  at  me.  You  will  never  know  how  near  I  was  to  the 
end." 

"It  is  you  who  seem  not  to  know,"  said  his  father. 

"We  have  all  been  near  to  things  that  are  beyond  us," 
said   Flavia,   "in   the  sense   that   we   imagine   ourselves 

171 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

doing  them,  without  any  intention  of  it.  And  it  is  not  very 
near.  We  have  all  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff  and  pictured 
ourselves  going  over." 

"I  stood  on  the  edge,"  said  Gassius. 

"Poor  Father!"  said  Toby,  pausing  to  look  at  him. 

"Yes,  poor  Father!  No  one  seems  to  know  how  poor  he 
is.  There  are  unkind  faces  on  every  side.  Well,  Fabian, 
you  are  wearing  a  dark  expression.  What  do  you  think  of 
what  has  happened?" 

"I  can't  help  being  surprised^  Father." 

"And  shocked?"  said  Gassius. 

"Well,  yes,  1  suppose  I  am." 

"By  what  you  thought  had  happened,  or  by  what  has?" 

"It  is  a  difi'erent  kind  of  feeling.  I  think  more  by  the 
pretence." 

"So  you  are  as  straight  as  a  die,  are  you?  You  could 
never  leave  the  narrow  path.  And  Guy  is  of  the  same 
mind.    He  could  not  be  anything  else." 

"I  could,  but  I  do  think  the  same  about  this." 

"And  what  does  Megan  think?  She  has  a  mind  of  her 
own." 

"Well,  it  was  not  very  honest.  I  think  everyone's  mind 
would  be  the  same." 

"Oh,  you  are  a  set  of  little,  literal  creatures !  Would  you 
rather  be  without  a  father  than  have  one  who  had  made  a 
mistake?" 

"No,  but  we  would  rather  have  the  usual  kind  of 
father." 

"It  wasn't  a  mistake,"  said  Henry.  "It  was  meant  to  be 
a  lasting  deceit." 

"Deception,"  said  Gassius,  easily.  "So  you  are  equally 
disturbed.   You  think  I  acted  a  lie?" 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  I  can't  help  seeing  you  did.  And  you  would  be 
angry  if  we  did  it." 

"I  don't  think  there  has  been  much  wrong  with  our 
training,"  said  Gassius,  smiling  at  Flavia,  as  though  the 
situation  were  an  easy  one.  "But  I  don't  think  I  was  so 
cold  and  conventional  when  I  was  a  child." 

"So  you  are  the  perfect  example,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"There  are  better  things  than  perfection,  my  dear  old 
father.  Things  that  have  their  place  in  the  imperfection 
of  human  life.  The  things  that  I  would  have  chosen  to 
have,  that  I  shall  miss  until  I  go  to  my  grave." 

Guy  and  Megan  looked  at  their  father  with  com- 
passion. 

"My  little  son  and  daughter!"  said  Gassius,  holding  out 
his  arms.  "Father  knows  what  you  feel.  You  have  sound 
hearts  beneath  the  surface  they  have  imposed  on  you. 
Father  understands." 

Fabian  and  Henry  regarded  the  scene  in  resignation, 
and  Toby  came  up  and  surveyed  it. 

"Gome,  my  boy,  you  have  made  enough  trouble,"  said 
Mr.  Clare. 

''My  little  ones,"  went  on  Gassius,  his  arms  still  open. 
"I  admit  this,  is  a  comfort  to  me.  I  am  glad  to  see  tears  in 
my  children's  eyes  for  their  father." 

"I  would  rather  see  something  other  than  tears,"  said 
Flavia. 

"Well,  I  would  not,  when  tears  are  the  right  thing,  the 
proper  tribute  to  other  people  and  to  them.  If  these  are 
a  tribute  to  me,  I  take  it  as  such  and  welcome  it.  It  shows 
them  at  their  best,  and  shows  me  what  they  are.  Why, 
Ainger,  I  did  not  see  you.  Have  you  been  moving  about 
in  the  room  all  the  time?" 

173 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

Ainger  gave  a  laint  start,  as  if  he  had  been  doincj  this  in 
solitude. 

"So  you  have  been  a  vs^itness  of  a  family  scene.  Well,  it 
is  not  the  first  time." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  said  Ainger,  pausing  as  if 
interrupted. 

"It  would  be  no  good  to  keep  anything  from  you.  But 
it  need  not  go  through  the  house." 

"That  is  not  the  destination  of  what  is  reposed  in  me, 
sir.  But  would  not  the  truth  be  better  than  what  has 
passed  for  it?" 

"Oh,  you  have  been  here  as  long  as  that,  have  you?" 

Ainger  flicked  a  duster  over  a  table  and  looked  with  a 
faint  frown  at  the  result. 

"You  mean  that  the  pretence  I  made  is  better  than  a 
real  attempt  at  the  same  thing." 

"It  is  of  an  easier  nature,  sir." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is.  People  don't  seem  to  take  to  the 
idea  of  net  seeing  me  in  my  place.  I  suppose  I  have  filled 
it  in  my  own  way.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  such  a 
thing.   I  hardly  know  what  word  to  use." 

"It  was  impetuous,  sir,"  said  Ainger,  not  himself  at  a 
loss. 

"Yes,  I  lost  my  head  as  anyone  might,  and  the  drug  was 
there.  Do  as  you  will  about  making  it  known.  You  may 
use  your  own  judgement." 

"I  have  already  used  it  as  I  have  implied,  sir,"  said 
Ainger,  putting  cigars  at  his  master's  hand  before  leaving 
the  room  with  a  smothered  eagerness. 

"Dear  Ainger!"  said  Toby,  looking  after  him. 

"He  is  a  good  friend,"  said  Cassius. 

"You  make  too  much  of  a  friend  of  him,"  said  Flavia. 

174 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Too  much  of  a  friend?"  said  her  husband,  with  Hfted 
brows.  "How  can  I  have  too  much  of  such  a  thing?  I 
have  Httle  enough  in  my  Hfe." 

"There  is  nothing  he  does  not  know." 

"And  too  much  that  he  may  know,  Flavia?"  said 
Cassius,  just  smihng  at  her  and  shaking  his  head.  "Ah, 
we  both  have  things  we  are  not  proud  of.  It  is  not  all  on 
my  side." 

"It  is  a  mistake  to  ignore  conventions.  There  is  always  a 
reason  behind  them." 

"I  have  never  been  bound  by  such  things." 

"But  it  is  a  pity  to  be  blind  to  them." 

"Blind?"  said  Cassius,  leaning  back  and  looking  before 
him.  "Ah,  there  is  too  much  blindness  in  the  world,  too 
muchinthis  house,  and  to  deeper  things  than  conventions." 

Ainger  recollected  himself  at  the  kitchen  door  and 
entered  with  his  hand  on  his  chin  and  his  eyes  down. 

"Well,  is  there  anything  to  tell?"  said  Madge,  inter- 
preting the  signs. 

Ainger  just  glanced  at  her  and  did  not  move  his  hand. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Mr.  Ainger?"  said  Kate. 

Ainger  spared  another  glance. 

"Put  it  into  plain  words,"  said  Halliday. 

"I  will  do  so,  if  I  resort  to  words." 

"And  what  is  there  against  that?" 

"I  am  weighing  the  reasons,"  said  Ainger,  and  con- 
tinued to  do  so. 

"Are  you  at  liberty  to  make  the  disclosure?"  said  Kate. 

"If  I  were  not,  should  I  be  debating  the  point?  It 
would  be  foregone." 

"You  can  feel  the  matter  is  in  your  hands?" 

"It  has  been  put  into  them,  Kate." 

175 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"By  the  master?" 

"Now,  Kate,  with  whom  else  am  I  on  that  footing?'* 
said  Ainger,  with  a  smile. 

"And  did  the  mistress  support  it?" 

"If  silence  indicates  consent." 

"It  often  does  not,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"No,  Mrs.  Frost,  that  is  true,"  said  Ainger.  "And 
looking  back,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  did.  That  is  why  I 
debate  the  matter.  I  do  not  render  less,  because  less  is 
given.    I  do  not  see  myself  in  that  light." 

"You  can  hold  your  tongue  if  you  want  to,"  said 
Halliday. 

Ainger  looked  at  him  and  just  inclined  his  head. 

"There  is  no  need  for  you  all  to  sit  in  silence,"  he  said, 
presently. 

"Everything  is  not  to  be  referred  to  yourself,"  said 
Halliday. 

"This  is,"  said  Madge.  "It  is  the  hush  of  suspense. 
Suppose  he  does  not  tell  us !" 

"There  is  no  need  to  suppose  it." 

"None  at  all,"  said  Ainger,  cordially.  "You  need  not 
meet  trouble  half-way." 

"Trouble  is  too  much  of  a  word,"  said  Halliday.  "It  is 
a  trifling  thing." 

"Not  to  me,"  said  Ainger.  "It  concerns  those  near  to 
me  and  above  me,  a  twofold  claim." 

"Is  the  truth  in  any  way  derogatory?"  said  Kate. 

"Not  to  my  mind,  Kate,  with  my  knowledge.  It  rather 
moves  a  pitying  smile." 

"So  it  does,"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  with  her  eyes  on  his 
face. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Frost,  I  do  not  suppress  it,"  said  Ainger, 

176 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

illustrating  the  words.  "It  is  the  attitude  that  meets  the 
case." 

"So  it  is  the  master  himself,"  said  Kate. 

"Well,  what  else  is  there  in  Ainger's  horizon?"  said 
Halliday. 

"It  is  the  chief  thing,  Halliday.  I  endorse  it.  He  is  the 
figure." 

"Is  it  anything  to  do  with  his  action?"  said  Kate. 

"It  throws  light  on  it,"  said  Ainger. 

"Wasn't  it  what  was  thought?" 

"It  was  and  it  was  not.   That  expresses  it." 

"Did  someone  else  give  him  the  tablets?"  said 
Madge. 

"That  is  not  a  line  to  pursue  in  this  house.  It  refutes 
itself." 

"Did  he  fail  to  judge  the  amount?"  said  Kate. 

"I  may  say  that  he  used  his  judgement,  Kate." 

"Did  he  take  too  little  on  purpose?"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

Ainger  inclined  his  head. 

"You  have  said  it,  Mrs.  Frost.  He  took  what  brought 
oblivion  and  gave  the  impression." 

"What  was  that?"  said  Madge. 

"That  he  wished  to  terminate  his  span  on  earth,"  said 
Ainger,  lowering  his  tone  and  his  eyes. 

"What  was  his  reason?"  said  Kate. 

"There  were  reasons  when  you  were  near  to  him.  They 
remain  in  their  place." 

"How  did  the  truth  come  to  light?" 

"The  usual  trivial  thing.  In  this  case  the  number  of 
tablets  remaining.  They  were  found  by  one  of  the 
children." 

"And  we  are  to  waste  our  pity!"  said  Halliday.   "I  give 

177 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

it  to  Other  people  and  give  him  something  else.    A  sorry 
course." 

"The  essence  of  sadness  and  helplessness,  Halliday.  The 
man  of  calibre  at  bay!  It  moves  the  heart  like  a  child's 
trouble." 

"Well,  he  is  your  child.  Or  was  it  your  younger 
brother?  When  I  have  seen  him,  he  has  been  something 
else." 

"You  are  right  that  it  is  complex,  Halliday." 

"What  does  the  mistress  feel  on  the  occasion?"  said 
Kate. 

"She  takes  the  view  to  be  expected,  but  violates 
nothing.  And  Mr.  Clare  applied  his  touch  in  his  own 
way." 

"So  the  master  had  to  appear  in  a  sorry  light." 

"Strange  to  say,  Kate,  he  did  not  do  so.  It  was  because 
he  did  not  feel  it.  Nothing  else  was  needed  to  prove  him 
himself." 

"Why  did  they  want  you  all  that  time?"  said  Halliday. 
"What  could  you  do  for  them?" 

"They  did  not  want  me  so  much  as  assume  my  presence. 
I  found  it  was  taken  for  granted.  And  I  could  do  nothing 
for  them,  Halliday.  It  was  not  the  occasion.  But  some- 
thing passed  between  us.  I  felt  it  going  from  me  to  them. 
My  presence  was  not  superfluous." 

"You  were  a  long  time  outside  the  door,"  said  Simon. 

"And  where  were  you?"  said  Ainger,  turning  on  him. 

"I  came  to  see  if  I  could  help.  But  you  were  not  doing 
anything." 

"You  are  wrong.  I  was  doing  my  duty,  odd  though  that 
may  seem  to  you." 

"It  may  seem  odd  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

178 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  his  duty  lies  along 
that  hne." 

"Mine  has  not  done  so  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"It  might  be  said  of  all  of  us,"  said  Kate.  "But  there 
are  circumstances." 

"The  master  will  approve,"  said  Ainger,  on  a  satisfied 
note,  "when  I  make  use  of  easy  reference.  Indeed  it  has 
come  to  pass.  It  spares  him  words;  it  saves  the  shame- 
faced touch,  and  that  I  could  not  bear  for  him." 

"You  are  birds  of  a  feather,"  said  Halliday. 

"Well,  closeness  tends  to  resemblance.  I  have  heard  it 
said.  But  when  the  gulf  narrows,  I  establish  it.  The 
master  may  be  trusted  to  me.  I  hold  his  position  dearer 
than  he  does  himself." 

"Does  Mr.  Clare  know  of  your  methods?"  said  Madge. 

"Ah,  there  is  not  much  that  escapes  the  old  gentleman. 
He  and  I  have  exchanged  a  look  on  the  occasion.  It  would 
not  be  complete  without  one." 

The  bell  rang,  and  Ainger  sped  from  the  room  with  a 
startled  look,  as  though  fearing  the  meaning  of  the 
summons. 


179 


I 


CHAPTER   XII 

Will  YOU  have  some  more  coffee,  Cassius?"  said  Flavia. 

Her  husband  made  no  reply. 

"Will  you  have  some  more  coffee?" 

Cassius  indicated  the  full  cup  at  his  elbow  and  looked 
before  him. 

"What  do  you  see  that  we  do  not?"  said  Mr  Clare. 

His  son  turned  his  eyes  on  him. 

"We  see  what  we  see,"  he  said  in  a  moment.  "Some  of 
us  nothing;  some  of  us  more;  some  of  us  much." 

"And  to  which  class  do  you  belong?" 

Cassius  turned  on  his  father  a  smile  of  some  kindness. 

"To  which  do  you?  We  all  see  ourselves  in  some 
way." 

"Only  one  class  would  be  needed,"  said  Flavia.  "We 
should  all  choose  the  same.  If  this  talk  has  anything  in  it." 

Cassius  transferred  the  smile  to  her,  and  kept  it  on  her 
for  a  moment.  If  the  talk  had  not  anything  in  it,  the  smile 
had.    It  carried  tolerance,  amusement,  perception. 

Ainger  bent  towards  his  master's  plate  in  concerned 
enquiry. 

"I  have  not  touched  that,"  said  the  latter,  in  an  in- 
cidental tone.    "It  need  not  be  wasted." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Ainger,  in  neutral  acceptance  of  this 
thrift,  as  he  removed  the  plate. 

"Are  you  not  having  anything  to  eat,  Cassius?"  said 
Flavia. 

1 80 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"You  can  see  I  am  not.  I  saw  you  notice  it  some  time 
ago.    It  was  not  worth  your  while  to  speak  of  it." 

"That  would  have  ensured  your  having  nothing." 

"It  has  been  proved,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

Cassius  vaguely  drummed  his  hands  on  the  table. 

"Would  you  like  some  fresh  toast?"  said  his  wife. 

Her  husband  turned  his  head  from  side  to  side. 

"What  are  you  doing  to-day?" 

"Doing?"  said  Cassius,  with  a  faint  frown.  "How  do 
you  mean?   In  what  way  am  I  making  myself  useful?" 

"In  what  way  are  you  to  pass  your  time?" 

"Time  passes  of  itself,"  said  Cassius,  in  a  deeper  tone. 
"It  does  not  need  our  dealings  with  it." 

"But  it  has  them,"  said  his  father.  "We  use  it  for  all  we 
do.  How  are  you  using  it  to-day?  That  is  your  v/ife's 
meaning." 

"Bailiff;  tenants;  gardener,"  said  Cassius,  just  enunci- 
ating the  words. 

"And  they  are  wearing  you  out?" 

"I  suppose  they  do  their  part  towards  it  day  by  day." 

"If  I  may  interpolate,  sir,"  said  Ainger,  "they  may  not 
be  available  this  morning.  The  flower  show  in  the  village 
will  engross  their  attention." 

"They  will  come  to  me  if  I  want  them." 

"Yes,  certainly,  sir." 

"It  is  not  a  public  holiday." 

"It  has  come  to  be  observed  as  a  local  one,  sir." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  gallivanting  with  the  rest?" 

"I  am  familiar  with  our  exhibits,  sir.  If  the  others  are 
inferior,  why  see  them?  And  if  superior,  we  may  want  to 
see  them  even  less." 

"Ours  are  hardly  up  to  standard  this  year." 

i8i 


THE    PRESENT     \ND    THE    PAST 

"For  a  reason  that  need  not  be  discussed,  sir,"  said 
Ainger,  as  if  this  would  be  a  needless  breach  of  conven- 
tion. 

"The  want  of  another  gardener?  We  cannot  afford  a 
second.  We  might  perhaps  have  a  boy." 

"I  doubt  if  William  has  the  tolerance,  sir." 

"Do  you  find  that  yours  is  taxed?" 

"Well,  I  am  inured,  sir." 

"And  William  will  become  so,  if  I  wish  it." 

"We  cannot  add  a  cubit  to  our  stature,  sir." 

"There  are  several  boys  without  work  in  the  village." 

"We  do  not  want  Master  Toby  among  them,  sir,"  said 
Ainger,  with  a  smile. 

"So  your  hours  will  be  empty  to-day?"  said  Mr.  Clare 
to  his  son. 

The  latter  just  glanced  at  him  and  leaned  his  head  on 
his  hand. 

"Accounts,"  he  said,  in  a  just  audible  tone. 

"The  library  will  be  ready,  sir,"  said  Ainger. 

"I  have  said  it  is  always  to  be  so." 

"The  desk  and  the  writing  materials  were  my  reference, 
Sir. 

"And  the  ledgers  and  rent  accounts,"  said  Cassius,  still 
supporting  his  head.   "I  shall  want  them  at  my  hand." 

"That  is  their  situation,  sir." 

"How  are  you  passing  your  time,  Flavia?"  said  Cassius. 

"I  shall  be  doing  the  usual  things." 

"And  is  that  an  answer?" 

"Housekeeping,  letters,  gardening,"  said  Flavia,  putting 
her  own  head  on  her  hand  and  echoing  his  tone. 

"Smoking,  newspapers,  dozing,"  said  Mr.  Clare,  more 
lightly. 

182 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

Gassius  appeared  not  to  see  or  hear. 

"Wine-cellar,  silver,  sideboard,  sir,"  said  Ainger,  in  a 
tone  of  coming  to  his  master's  aid.  "Arrears  accumulate 
as  soon  as  effort  fluctuates." 

"How  about  the  wine  from  London?"  said  Gassius. 

"It  is  still  in  London,  as  far  as  I  am  informed,  sir." 

"When  did  you  write  for  it,  Gassius?"  said  Flavia. 

"I  cannot  be  sure  of  the  exact  day." 

"Did  you  write  at  all?"  said  his  father.  "It  is  a  thing 
that  would  be  hard  for  you." 

"Then  it  would  be  natural  if  I  did  not  write." 

"And  it  is  natural  that  the  wine  has  not  come,"  said  his 
wife. 

"Gan  I  indite  the  order  for  you,  sir?"  said  Ainger. 

"Well,  you  may  copy  the  rough  draft  on  my  desk,  if  I 
have  omitted  to  do  so." 

"The  one  I  dictated,  sir?  I  do  not  need  to  recapitulate. 
My  memory  is  one  of  my  characteristics." 

"You  have  not  been  active  in  the  matter,  my  boy,"  said 
Mr.  Glare. 

Gassius  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  active  in  nothing. 

"Are  you  not  yourself  to-day?    Or  are  you  too  much 

SO.'^ 

"We  are  all  too  much  ourselves  at  breakfast,"  said 
Gassius,  looking  round  the  table  to  encounter  proof  of 
this.    "I  don't  think  there  are  exceptions." 

"No,  no,  you  are  a  person  apart." 

"I  have  felt  that  for  a  long  time." 

"We  all  have  to  get  used  to  it,"  said  Flavia,  "and  it  has 
its  own  comfort." 

"We  live  at  such  different  levels,"  said  her  husband. 

"But  always  at  a  deep  one  ourselves.   When  someone 

183 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

else  is  bereaved,  we  always  say  how  easily  he  has  got  over 
it." 

"I  think  cf  my  mother  every  day,"  said  Cassius;  "my 
dear  mother  whose  sympathy  flowed  from  her.  Perhaps 
she  taught  me  to  expect  too  much." 

"She  did  so,"  said  Mr.  Clare,  "and  you  learned  it  from 
her.  A  woman  with  one  son  may  serve  him  in  that  way. 
It  was  a  simple  case." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  want  so  much  sympathy,"  said 
Flavia. 

"No?"  said  Cassius,  resting  his  eyes  on  her. 

"You  arc  not  an  unfortunate  man." 

"No?" 

"Upon  my  word  I  don't  know  what  the  trouble  is,"  said 
Mr.  Clare. 

"There  is  no  trouble,"  said  Flavia,  "and  we  should  not 
make  one.   There  are  enough  and  to  spare." 

"A  truism,"  said  her  husband. 

"They  are  generally  true." 

"They  sometimes  have  a  modicum  of  truth.  I  suppose 
that  is  what  you  mean." 

"No,  I  meant  what  I  said.  That  is  what  you  mean 
yourself." 

"I  have  never  had  to  make  troubles,"  said  Cassius. 
"My  share  has  come  to  me." 

"So  you  have  been  spared  the  pains,"  said  his  father. 
"And  I  do  not  know  why  you  should  take  them." 

"I  have  had  rather  trials  than  troubles,"  said 
Flavia. 

"You  must  be  glad  of  that,"  said  Cassius,  in  a  cordial 
tone.   "And  we  are  glad  for  you." 

"Trials  have  a  way  of  being  more  continuous.    They 

184 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

are  more  involved  in  ordinary  life.    They  stand  less  by 
themselves." 

"They  are  woven  into  life,"  said  Cassius,  dreamily,  "a 
part  of  its  warp  and  woof.  You  would  not  be  prepared 
for  that.  We  must  not  look  for  experience  from  those  who 
have  not  had  it." 

"Is  mine  any  good  to  you  this  morning?"  said  his 
father.    "I  have  had  enough,  and  it  is  at  your  service." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  be  with  you  when  my  work  is  done. 
Flavia  has  her  companionship." 

"What  do  you  know  about  my  plans  for  the  day?"  said 
his  wife. 

"Know  about  them?"  said  Cassius,  looking  up  with  a 
faint  frown.  "There  is  nothing  to  know,  is  there?  They 
are  stereotyped." 

"And  in  what  way?" 

"Well,  either  you  will  go  to  your  friend  or  she  will  come 
to  you.   Is  there  any  alternative?" 

"Are  you  speaking  of  the  boys'  mother?" 

"Flavia,  that  is  going  too  far,"  said  Cassius,  almost 
laughing. 

"There  are  other  people  in  my  life." 

Her  husband  raised  his  brows. 

"You  forget  that  I  have  children  myself." 

"I  may  sometimes  do  so,  now  that  there  is  less  to  remind 
me  of  it,  now  you  are  focused  on  one  point." 

"You  know  less  about  me  than  you  think." 

Cassius  sent  his  eyes  over  her  and  did  not  endorse 
this. 

"I  do  not  claim  to  know  everything  about  you." 

"Well,  no,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Cassius,  with  a  faint 
sound  of  amusement. 

185 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  I  should  have  thought  you  were  the  easier  to 
judge." 

Cassius  laughed  outright. 

"People  talk  of  our  seeing  ourselves  as  others  see  us," 
said  Mr.  Clare.  "It  is  the  way  we  ourselves  do  so,  that 
should  concern  them." 

"Especially  when  we  make  it  clear,"  said  Cassius, 
looking  at  his  wife  with  another  tremble  of  mirth. 

"This  is  not  sincere  talk,"  she  said. 

"Is  it  not?"  said  her  husband.  "It  is  honest  of  you  to 
admit  it." 

"You  are  a  sophist,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"Well,  is  breakfast  at  an  end?"  said  Cassius,  rising  from 
the  table,  and  seeming  to  chance  to  push  his  full  cup  into 
view.    "If  so,  I  will  go  to  the  library." 

"Breakfast  has  not  begun  for  Cassius,"  said  Flavia,  as 
the  door  closed.   "But  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"Nothing;  my  dear.  Nothing  can  be  done.  We  are 
helpless  in  the  matter." 

"I  wonder  how  much  he  suffers  in  these  moods." 

"We  can  only  know  what  we  do.  We  can  learn  no 
more." 

"I  always  feel  I  ought  to  be  able  to  prevent  them." 

"I  have  felt  the  same.  But  we  rank  ourselves  too  high. 
We  cannot  be  of  use." 

"What  Cassius  needs  is  a  perfect  wife.  I  see  what  it 
would  do  for  him.  But  perfection  might  do  a  good  deal 
for  many  of  us.   It  may  be  too  simple  a  view." 

"It  is  not  only  the  complex  that  is  true.  We  all  need 
perfection  in  other  people,  and  might  be  the  better  for  it." 

"I  attempted  the  impossible  in  marrying  him.  Or  do  I 
mean  something  beyond  me?" 

186 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"You  may  mean  them  both.  Cassius  stands  as  what  he 
is.   He  offers  no  revised  version  of  himself." 

Cassius  had  gone  to  the  Hbrary,  sat  down  at  the  desk 
and  rested  his  head  on  his  hands.  Once  or  twice  he  raised 
it  and  drew  some  papers  towards  him,  but  soon  re- 
linquished them.  Ainger  entered,  laid  the  list  of  wine 
before  him,  and  withdrew  in  one  swift  movement. 
Cassius  looked  up  at  him  as  he  reached  the  door. 

"So  it  is  thought  that  wine  matters,  Ainger.  What  is 
your  feeling  about  it?" 

"Well,  sir,  in  our  ordinary  life  ordinary  things  have 
their  niche." 

"I  somehow  feel  I  am  no  longer  living  it.  There  has 
come  a  change  for  me  of  late.  I  hardly  know  how  to 
express  it." 

"I  should  suggest  you  have  not  been  yourself  since  your 
illness,  sir." 

"That  is  a  kind  way  of  putting  it,  Ainger.  It  holds  a 
kind  thought.  Everyone's  thought  of  me  is  not  so  kind. 
I  have  to  get  used  to  hostile  eyes." 

"Would  it  not  be  truer  to  say  'disapproving',  sir?  There 
is  no  hostility  in  any  glance  I  have  seen  cast  upon  you." 

"Disapproval  is  a  cheerless  companion.  It  throws  a 
cold  shadow  on  one's  path.  I  may  have  invited  it,  but  it 
dogs  my  steps.  I  ask  myself  if  I  shall  always  be  followed 
by  it." 

"Not  if  you  give  it  time  and  make  no  more  place  for  it, 
sir." 

"Ah,  you  too  think  the  less  of  me." 

"I  think  the  more  about  you,  sir,  and  with  no  less 
feeling,"  said  Ainger,  as  he  went  to  the  door. 

Cassius  looked  at  the  list  of  wine  as  if  he  did  not  follow 

187 


Ti^E    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

it,  took  up  an  envelope  and  put  the  two  together,  but 
seemed  unable  to  connect  them,  and  remained  with  them 
in  his  hands. 

An  hour  or  two  later  Ainger  came  to  Mr.  Clare. 

"We  are  in  trouble  again,  sir.  I  hesitate  to  tell  you.  I 
hardly  like  to  employ  the  words." 

"Well,  make  up  your  mind.  Either  use  them  or  tell 
someone  else  to  do  so." 

''The  master  again,  sir.  He  is  lying  on  the  sofa,  as 
before.  And  it  is  not  two  hours  since  we  exchanged  a 
word.  What  course  are  we  to  follow?  Making  much  of  it 
defeats  its  purpose." 

"I  will  come  with  you  and  see  him." 

"It  is  what  I  hoped  you  would  suggest,  sir." 

The  two  men  went  to  the  library  and  Mr.  Clare  stood 
by  his  son. 

"Yes,  the  same  thing  again.  A  second  time.  I  suppose 
breakfast  was  leading  up  to  it.   I  see  now  that  it  was." 

"It  did  strike  a  warning  note,  sir.  But  we  could  not 
forecast  this.  We  have  had  breakfasts  of  that  kind  before." 

"What  is  our  life  to  be,  if  we  are  to  fear  it?  We  cannot 
live  under  the  threat.   It  would  be  not  to  live  at  all." 

"If  you  will  be  advised,  sir,  you  will  do  nothing. 
Notice  feeds  the  desire  for  prominence  and  has  the  out- 
come. Neglect  is  sometimes  wholesome.  Our  seeming  to 
become  inured  may  prevent  recurrence.  It  would  have 
to  be  done  without  reward,  if  you  understand  me." 

"It  seems  little  reward  in  itself,"  said  Mr.  Clare,  looking 
at  his  son.  "Well,  he  recovered  by  himself  before;  the 
doctor  did  nothing.  We  may  leave  it  to  happen  as  it  did 
then,  as  no  doubt  he  relied  on  its  doing.  And  we  will  not 
have  the  after-scenes.   That  was  our  mistake." 

1 88 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,  sir,  we  crowned  it  with  success,  as  it  were.  Were 
the  tablets  where  he  would  come  on  them?"' 

"There  are  some  in  the  desk.  I  keep  them  for  myself, 
and  must  do  so.  I  did  not  turn  the  key  on  them.  Why 
should  I  do  such  a  thing?  He  is  a  man  of  fifty  and  my  son. 
And  I  felt  he  had  done  this  once  and  for  all.  I  thought 
there  were  signs  of  it.  And  there  were  signs.  I  know  him." 

"I  should  have  said  the  same  of  myself,  sir.  It  seems  we 
are  not  to  know  each  other." 

"I  know  my  son.  I  have  foretold  his  actions.  I  have 
seen  them  in  his  words.  I  did  not  foretell  this.  Can  there 
be  a  change?" 

"I  should  have  thought  not,  sir.  I  should  have  said 
there  was  something  immutable.  I  hope  this  is  not  part 
of  it,"  said  Ainger,  ending  almost  with  a  smile. 

"We  must  see  that  it  is  noto  We  must  protect  him  from 
himself,  and  ourselves  from  him.  But  it  serves  no  purpose 
to  stand  with  our  eyes  on  him.  He  looks  as  he  did  last 
time,  and  for  a  while  must  do  so.  Last  time!  What  a  way 
to  have  to  talk!" 

Mr.  Glare  turned  with  a  silent  step,  as  if  his  son  were 
asleep. 

"Let  me  lead  you  away,  sir,"  said  Ainger,  putting  his 
hand  under  his  arm.  "I  will  look  in  on  the  master  myself. 
Though  he  does  not  know  it,  my  eye  will  be  on  him.  It 
will  not  be  the  first  time." 

"Gome  to  me,  if  there  is  any  change.  And  when  your 
mistress  returns,  bring  her  to  me." 

"I  will  break  it  to  her  myself,  sir.  I  can  spare  you  that. 
And  you  may  rely  on  the  method.  It  is  fortunate  that  she 
is  to  be  away  for  some  hours.  When  she  returns,  the  worst 
will  be  over." 

189 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"And  the  rest  will  begin.  And  we  have  had  enough.  I 
do  not  see  why  a  woman  should  bear  anything,  or  an  old 
man  cither.  He  will  not  teach  me  to  forget  that  I  am  his 
father,  but  I  can  only  answer  for  myself." 

"We  all  have  to  make  our  sacrifice  for  the  master,  sir. 
And  it  seems  to  bind  us  together.  In  a  way  it  is  the  mean- 
ing of  the  house." 

When  Flavia  returned  late  in  the  day,  Ainger  was 
waiting  in  the  hall. 

"I  am  both  glad  and  sorry  to  see  you,  ma'am.  I  hope 
we  have  done  right.  We  have  had  our  trouble  again,  and 
have  had  to  use  our  own  judgement.  It  could  not  have 
been  foreseen." 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"It  is  the  same  thing  again,  ma'am.  The  master  was 
found  as  before.  I  happened  to  look  in  on  him.  It  is  a 
good  thing  the  instinct  prompted  me.  I  don't  know  if  the 
coming  event  cast  its  shadow  before." 

"There  was  some  kind  of  shadow.  It  has  followed  me  all 
day.  I  ought  to  have  stayed  at  home.  What  is  the  truth?" 

"Simply  the  same  as  previously,  ma'am.  Or  I  trust  we 
can  say  it  is.  We  thought  it  best  to  leave  him,  as  the 
doctor  found  nothing  to  do.  But  as  the  hours  passed  and 
there  was  no  change,  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  send  for 
him.  He  should  be  here  at  any  moment.  I  did  not  tell 
Mr.  Clare  for  fear  of  alarming  him.  Yes,  ma'am,  on  the 
sofa,  as  before." 

Flavia  was  standing  by  Cassius,  as  his  father  had  stood. 
She  turned  to  Ainger  at  once. 

"You  are  not  right  that  there  has  been  no  change. 
There  have  been  more  than  one.  When  did  the  last  one 
come?" 

190 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  admit  I  am  alarmed  myself,  ma'am." 

"It  is  useless  for  me  to  say  that  the  doctor  should  have 
come  at  once." 

"It  may  partake  of  wisdom  after  the  event,  ma'am." 

"It  is  wisdom  nevertheless,"  said  Flavia,  turning  again 
to  her  husband. 

The  minutes  passed  in  silence.  There  was  nothing  to  do 
but  live  through  them.  Ainger  waited  at  the  door  for  the 
doctor,  and  they  hastened  to  the  library.  Mr.  Clare 
entered  with  them,  summoned  by  the  sounds. 

The  silence  held  and  grew.  The  doctor  bent  over 
Cassius.  Ainger  moved  to  his  hand,  obeyed  his  hurried 
word.  Some  necessary  things  were  done,  and  he  turned 
and  faced  the  wife  and  father. 

"It  is  worse  this  time,"  said  Mr.  Clare.  "  Has  he  taken 
more  than  before?" 

"He  has  taken  nothing.  This  is  a  different  thing.  It  is 
a  sudden  illness.  It  is  an  affection  of  the  heart  not  unusual 
in  middle-aged  men.  If  stimulants  had  been  given  in  time, 
it  might  have  been  different.  I  can  say  it  would  have 
been.  I  should  have  been  sent  for  at  once,  as,  if  you  had 
known,  you  would  have  sent  for  me." 

"But  how  could  we  know?  How  could  we  suspect  this 
second  thing?   It  had  all  the  appearance  of  the  first." 

"You  could  not  know.  You  are  not  to  blame.  You 
thought  and  did  what  was  natural." 

"And  now  is  there  any  hope?" 

The  doctor  did  not  answer,  and  Mr.  Clare  turned  to  his 
son. 

"Poor  boy,  poor  boy!"  he  said. 

"Can  nothing  be  done?"  said  Flavia. 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  sick  man,  and  Flavia  followed 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

his  eyes.  Nothing  could  be  done  but  stand  by  Cassius, 
feehng  there  might  be  comfort  in  their  presence,  knowing 
there  was  none;  nothing  but  watch  the  shortening  breath, 
and  feel  their  own  stop,  as  a  sudden  deep  sigh  preceded  a 
silence. 

There  was  a  faint  stir  as  it  came.  The  doctor  bent  over 
the  couch.  The  wife  and  father  remained  with  their  eyes 
on  it  until  they  found  they  were  alone.  Voices  were  heard 
outside  and  seemed  to  liberate  their  own. 

"I  could  not  know,  my  dear.  How  could  anyone  know? 
This  takes  more  of  my  life  than  yours." 

"What  kind  of  a  life  did  Cassius  have?"  said  Flavia, 
with  a  cry  in  her  tones.  "Did  he  find  it  worth  while?  Did 
it  hold  as  much  as  other  men's?  Did  he  feel  that  it  did? 
Did  he  ever  tell  you  how  he  saw  it?" 

"It  is  no  good  to  wish  it  different.  It  would  be  to  wish 
him  different,  and  this  is  not  the  time." 

"I  cannot  help  wishing  it.  It  would  have  been  better 
for  him.  I  wish  he  had  been  happier.  I  wish  he  had  had 
more.  I  wish  I  had  given  it  to  him.  I  had  the  opportunity 
day  by  day.  I  had  it  only  a  few  hours  ago,  and  to  the  end 
of  my  life  I  shall  wish  it." 

"I  hardly  do  so.  I  gave  him  what  I  had  to  give.  And  I 
do  not  need  to  talk  of  the  end  of  my  life.  It  is  at  its  end. 
My  son  and  I  will  be  together,  even  if  in  emptiness." 

"It  is  hard  to  think  Cassius  does  not  exist,  harder  than 
to  think  it  of  other  men.  It  seems  that  he  would  be 
angry  about  it,  that  it  ought  not  to  have  happened  to 
him." 

"Do  we  feel  it  should  happen  to  any  of  us?  Do  our 
reason  and  our  feeling  work  together?  How  should  they 
do  so?  We  do  not  welcome  the  truth." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"We  cannot  know  what  it  is." 

"We  cannot  prove  that  we  know  it.  W^e  may  chng  to 
that." 

"How  good  a  wife  do  you  think  I  was  to  him?" 

"As  good  as  any  woman  could  have  been.  No  one  was 
the  wife  for  Cassius.    It  was  easier  to  be  his  father." 

"What  a  difficult  life!  And  yet  why  need  it  have  been? 
He  seemed  to  have  the  nature  of  a  child  and  the  feelings 
of  a  man.  I  see  him  like  that  suddenly,  and  feel  I  should 
always  have  done  so." 

"There  is  some  truth  in  it,  my  dear.  I  said  that  my  part 
was  the  easier." 

"So  I  shall  live  without  Cassius." 

"And  I  shall  die  without  him.  And  I  did  not  look  to  do 
that.  I  have  thought  of  his  living  without  me.  He  is  more 
fortunate  than  I  am,  or  I  like  to  think  so." 

Ainger  returned  to  the  room  and  went  up  to  Mr. 
Glare. 

"May  I  advise  you  to  accompany  us,  ma'am?"  he  said, 
as  he  led  him  to  the  door.  "It  would  have  been  the 
master's  wish.   That  is  what  remains  to  us." 

They  followed  Ainger  to  the  drawing-room,  and  saw 
that  he  was  serving  them  with  a  sense  of  fulfilling  his 
master's  directions.  It  occurred  to  them  both  to  wonder 
what  these  would  have  been. 

"So  you  and  I  will  be  here  together,"  said  Flavia  to  her 
father-in-law.  "And  when  you  die,  I  shall  be  here  alone. 
I  shall  be  alone  with  the  children.  I  shall  deal  with  them 
alone.  Cassius  would  have  said  I  should  have  Catherine, 
but  I  shall  not  have  her.  It  will  be  a  stretch  of  emptiness. 
I  do  not  feel  I  can  face  it." 

"We  are  able  for  what  we  must.   If  our  strength  fails,  it 

193 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

brings  our  solution.  And  yours  will  take  you  on.  I  do 
not  say  you  are  fortunate.  You  will  find  a  barren  path 
and  you  will  follow  it." 

"Would  Cassius  be  glad  to  be  missed  so  much?" 

Mr.  Clare  was  silent,  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips. 

"I  have  no  wish  to  see  Catherine,"  said  Flavia.  "I  feel 
it  was  a  mistake  that  I  ever  saw  her." 

"It  was  never  your  wish.  It  was  thrust  on  you.  You  did 
your  best  with  it,  and  it  grew  beyond  you.  It  had  to  do 
that  or  fail,  though  at  the  time  we  did  not  see  it.  Cassius 
asked  too  much,  and  he  got  nothing.  You  had  to  give  too 
much,  and  the  reaction  came.  It  was  a  living  and  growing 
thing." 

"I  shall  blame  myself  all  my  life.  I  feel  it  is  the  one  thing 
I  shall  do." 

"Less  with  every  month,  and  soon  with  every  day  and 
hour." 

"I  do  not  mean  only  for  Catherine.  I  know  that 
demand  was  made  on  me  there.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
meet  it.  I  mean  for  my  life  with  Cassius,  for  most  of  those 
nine  years.  I  knew  he  wanted  flattery.  I  could  have  given 
it  to  him.  Why  cannot  we  serve  each  other?  Why  could 
I  not  meet  his  need?  I  knew  he  wanted  too  much 
sympathy,  and  I  gave  too  little.  I  had  my  own  standard 
and  observed  it  as  if  it  were  absolute.  And  it  was  only 
mine.   Cassius  was  alone." 

"No,  I  was  with  him.  I  feel  I  can  say  it.  It  is  my  drop 
of  comfort,  and  I  need  not  do  without  it.  He  was  less 
alone  than  you  were.  You  can  feel  that  you  bore  the  most. 
Ajid  if  he  came  back  to  life,  he  would  be  the  same.  You 
would  find  the  same  trouble,  meet  the  same  failure.  That 
means  that  you  did  not  fail.   And  you  did  not  leave  him, 

194 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

as  the  other  woman  did.  And  he  did  not  deal  with  you  as 
he  did  with  her.   That  is  your  success." 

*'I  wish  I  had  had  a  real  one.  But  I  can  only  have  what 
is  mine.  And  I  hardly  understand  myself.  My  sympathy 
with  Catherine  is  gone.    I  see  her  as  another  woman." 

"I  never  saw  her  as  she  saw  herself.  It  was  perhaps 
your  mistake  that  you  did  so.  We  should  see  people 
through  our  own  eyes,  if  we  keep  them  clear.  I  saw  my 
son  through  mine,  and  loved  him  for  himself  and  showed 
it.   I  have  that  to  carry  with  me." 

"You  are  the  fortunate  one  of  us,  or  rather  you  are  the 
best." 

"I  have  been  the  best  to  Cassius.  I  will  take  what  is 
mine.  But  I  knew  him  as  a  child,  and  saw  the  child  in 
him.   That  was  my  help." 

They  fell  into  silence,  and  Ainger,  who  had  stood  with 
bent  head  while  they  spoke,  noiselessly  left  the  room. 

He  went  to  the  kitchen  without  much  thought  of  him- 
self and  sat  down  in  his  place.  The  others  looked  at  him 
in  some  awe  before  his  experience. 

"Well,  it  is  over,  Mrs.  Frost,  and  I  feel  my  life  is  over 
with  it.  When  the  old  gentleman  is  gone,  I  shall  have 
nothing.  It  may  be  a  mistake  to  be  knit  so  close,  but  it 
comes  about  in  spite  of  us.  An  obscure  life  holds  its 
troubles." 

"Is  the  mistress  prostrate?"  said  Kate,  as  though  this 
might  be  assumed. 

"Her  head  is  upright,  Kate,  and  the  old  gentleman  is  the 
same.  Other  things  about  them  are  not  to  be  passed 
on. 

"Shan't  we  ever  see  the  master  again?"  said  Simon. 

"No,    my    boy,"    said    Ainger,    with    a    note   of  full 

195 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

acceptance  of  what  he  said.   "If  you  failed  towards  him, 
it  is  too  late  to  rectify  it  now." 

"And  I  am  not  an  advocate  for  feminine  rule,"  said 
Kate. 

"It  is  the  man's  part,"  said  Aingcr.  "He  is  the  natural 
head.   And  I  make  no  implication." 

"No,  you  managed  without  one,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"I  meant  nothing  adverse,"  said  Ainger. 

"I  do  not  exalt  the  female  sex,"  said  Kate. 

"We  may  do  so,  Kate,  within  its  sphere." 

"That  first  business  was  on  a  woman's  level,"  said 
Halliday. 

"Halliday,  the  master  is  dead,"  said  Ainger,  perhaps 
taking  Kate's  view. 

"And  the  others'  foolishness  of  not  sending  for  the 
doctor!"  said  Halliday  to  Kate.  "Taking  matters  into 
their  own  hands!" 

"You  can  say  it  to  my  face,  Halliday,"  said  Ainger. 
"Not  turn  aside  and  say  it  to  a  woman.  It  is  a  thing  I 
shall  carry  with  me." 

"It  will  accompany  you  to  the  grave,"  said  Kate,  in  sad 
agreement. 

"I  shall  suffer  for  it,  though  I  am  innocent.  It  is  the 
hardest  kind  of  trouble." 

"Has  the  mistress  uttered  any  word  of  reproach?" 

"If  she  had,  I  would  have  heard  it  in  silence.  But  she 
moves  in  her  sphere.   Such  things  would  not  emerge." 

"You  can  say  it  to  my  face,"  said  Halliday. 

Madge  moved  her  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"Ah,  Madge,  that  is  how  I  feel,"  said  Ainger.  "But  I 
have  to  regard  my  sex." 

"Let  yourself  go,  Mr.  Ainger,"  said  Kate,  in  sympathy. 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

Ainger  shook  his  head  with  a  smile. 

"There  may  be  courage  under  an  aspect,"  said  Kate. 

"It  can  be  said  of  Mr.  Glare,"  said  Ainger.  "There  is  an 
instance  of  a  broken  heart,  if  you  want  one." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"And  he  will  not  be  with  us  much  longer,"  said  Kate. 

"He  and  I  have  followed  the  fortunes  of  the  house,"  said 
Ainger.  "We  have  stood,  as  it  were,  outside.  The  master 
and  I  stand  together  within  it." 

"You  should  use  the  past  tense,"  said  Kate. 

"So  I  should;  so  I  must  by  degrees.  It  comes  hard  to 
my  tongue  to  use  the  word,  'was',  of  the  master." 

"We  know  he  would  not  return,  if  he  could." 

"We  may  know  it,  Kate,  with  our  heads.  In  my  heart  I 
shall  always  feel  that  he  would  revisit  the  old  haunts,  if  he 
could." 

"Was  he  good  enough  to  go  where  it  is  better  than 
here?"  said  Simon. 

"It  is  not  for  you  to  enquire  after  those  above  you,"  said 
Ainger. 

"And  now  so  much  above,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Mrs.  Frost,  I  should  not  have  instanced  it  as  a  case  for 
pleasantry.   I  wonder  at  its  striking  you  in  that  light." 

"We  cannot  have  only  heaviness,"  said  Kate. 

"There  is  nothing  else  for  me,"  said  Ainger.  "For  me  it 
is  one  of  the  passages.  I  go  alone  through  it,  and  would 
not  include  others.  I  have  had  the  gain  and  accept  the 
loss.  We  pay  the  price." 

"Of  every  happiness,"  said  Kate.  "Perhaps  still  waters 
are  best." 

"The  master  was  not  very  old,"  said  Madge. 

"Fifty-two  summers,"  said  Ainger.  "It  was  his  weakness 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

to  pass  for  less,  or  we  will  say  his  whim.   But  for  me  the 
veil  was  lifted." 

"To  me  he  looked  his  age,"  said  Kate. 

"His  face  carried  the  ravages  of  his  experience.  And  I 
do  not  share  his  reluctance.  Forty  is  my  age,  and  as  forty 
I  stand  before  you.  It  is  the  right  age  for  a  man.  But  this 
will  take  me  forward.   Middle  age  is  in  sight." 

"I  am  sixty-three  and  not  troubled  by  it,"  said  Halliday. 

"Seven  years  from  the  span,"  said  Kate. 

"And  not  troubled  by  that!"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Our  time  has  to  come,"  said  Halliday. 

"That  is  what  I  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.  "And  it  is 
what  the  master  meant." 

"Mrs.  Frost,  had  you  no  feeling  for  the  master?"  said 
Ainger. 

"I  had  as  much  as  he  had  for  me." 

"He  estimated  your  skill  in  your  line,  and  indeed  gave 
voice  to  it.  He  was  not  conversant  with  your  life  in  its 
other  aspects," 

"He  did  not  know  it  had  any." 

"Now,  Mrs.  Frost,  how  could  he?" 

"He  could  not,  as  it  had  none." 

"Now,  Mrs.  Frost,  you  cannot  expect  us  to  believe 
that." 

"I  daresay  the  master  would  have  believed  it,  if  he  had 
thought  about  me." 

"Now  how  often  did  you  think  about  him,  apart  from 
matters  in  your  sphere?  And  of  those  he  spoke  in  com- 
mendation. And  I  lost  no  time  in  conveying  it  to  you." 

"We  have  to  be  thankful  for  small  mercies,"  said 
Madge. 

"I  am  not,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.   "They  are  too  small." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Mrs.  Frost  preserves  her  note,"  said  Kate. 

"I  did  not  suspect  her  of  principles  of  equality,"  said 
Ainger. 

"There  is  the  order  of  things,"  said  Kate. 

'*I  used  to  wish  to  advance,"  said  Ainger.  "And  it  may 
raise  its  head.  For  the  moment  I  find  it  enough  to  have 
served." 

"I  am  glad  your  sorrow  is  to  be  short-lived,"  said  Mrs. 
Frost. 

"Mrs.  Frost,  you  fail  to  do  Mr.  Ainger  justice,"  said  Kate. 

"Ah,  never  mind,  Kate,"  said  Ainger.  "I  do  not  stake 
any  claims.  No,  Simon,  you  may  keep  your  seat.  The  bell 
is  my  prerogative  to-day.  I  feel  it  is  my  heritage  from  the 
master.   It  comes  to  me  as  a  bequest." 

"It  is  his  legacy  to  you,"  said  Kate. 

"I  would  rather  have  the  ordinary  kind,"  said  Mrs. 
Frost. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Frost,  if  you  want  to  know,  you  have  it," 
said  Ainger,  pausing  and  speaking  almost  fiercely.  "The 
master  has  remembered  both  you  and  me  in  his  will.  He 
reposed  his  trust  in  me  on  the  point.  And  the  others 
benefit  to  a  proportionate  extent,  priority  receiving  its 
due." 

"But  Mrs.  Frost  spoke  without  ulterior  thought,"  said 
Kate. 

"So  now  you  know  what  to  think  of  him,"  said  Ainger. 

"So  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  "and  I  am  thinking  it. 
But  I  did  not  know  before." 

"I  am  glad  I  did  not  speak  against  him,"  said  Kate. 
"Not  that  it  should  exert  an  influence." 

"I  never  will  again,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.  "I  find  it  is 
exerting  one." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  have  been  here  nearly  fifty  years,  boy  and  man,"  said 
Halliday.   "If  things  are  to  be  taken  into  account." 

"So  that  is  your  instinctive  response,"  said  Ainger. 
"Surely  the  amount  is  negUgible." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"Mrs.  Frost,  I  meant  it  was  secondary,  as  you  know." 

"It  is  the  thought,"  said  Kate. 

"But  the  thought  must  have  an  object,"  said  Halli- 
day. 

"I  am  in  a  position  to  state  figures,"  said  Ainger.  "But 
I  refrain  from  doing  so.  It  is  not  the  occasion.  I  was 
wrong  to  broach  the  topic." 

"You  did  it  to  uphold  the  master,"  said  Kate. 

"It  must  emerge  in  the  end,"  said  Halliday.  "It  is  not 
your  secret." 

"That  will  seem  strange  to  me,  when  it  has  been  so  for 
so  long." 

"You  must  sometimes  have  felt  the  impulse  to  divulge 
it,"  said  Kate. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Kate.  It  was  dependent  on  the 
master's  passing.    I  held  my  thoughts  apart." 

"If  he  had  lived  the  normal  time,  I  should  have  gone 
before  him,"  said  Halliday.  "There  would  have  been  no 
reward  for  a  lifetime." 

"Anyone  would  think  it  was  the  matter  of  the  moment," 
said  Ainger.   "I  regret  that  it  escaped  me." 

"I  suppose  it  was  meant  to  interest  us." 

"It  was  meant  for  that,  Halliday.  The  master  thought 
of  our  advantage  at  the  time  when  he  would  have  nothing. 
There  is  something  that  grips  the  heart." 

"People  have  to  make  their  wills.  They  are  not  heroes 
for  that." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  think  they  are,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.  "I  made  my  will, 
and  I  was  a  hero." 

"You  can't  take  anything  with  you." 

"I  said  I  was  a  hero." 

"The  master  had  choice,"  said  Ainger.  "He  could  have 
left  everything  to  the  family  without  further  thought." 

"Perhaps  they  are  heroes,"  said  Mrs.  Frost.  "I  hope 
they  are." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  on  that  scale,"  said  Halliday. 

"There  is  the  bell  again,  Mr.  Ainger,"  said  Kate,  in 
surprise  at  Ainger's  delay. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  the  latter,  standing  straight  and 
still,  "how  I  miss  something  in  the  master's  ring,  some- 
thing firm  and  masculine  that  spoke  from  him  to  me " 

He  turned  and  vanished  as  the  bell  rang  again. 

"Something  firm  and  feminine  spoke  to  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Frost. 

"That  is  what  we  have  now,"  said  Halliday.  "And  we 
shall  have  more  of  it." 

"Aren't  ladies  as  good  as  men?"  said  Simon. 

"They  tend  to  be  subject  to  themselves,"  said  Kate. 

"And  that  means  other  people  are  subject  to  them," 
said  Halliday. 

"If  ever  anyone  carried  a  grief,  it  is  Mr.  Ainger,"  said 
Kate.  "The  way  he  does  not  protrude  it  tells  its  tale.  His 
presence  should  act  as  a  restraint." 

"Ah,  we  are  a  thought  worked  up,"  said  Halliday. 

"The  note  of  hysteria,"  said  Kate.  "We  must  not 
judge  each  other." 

"Mr.  Ainger  judged  me,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"I  can  image  his  bearing  as  he  reaches  the  drawing- 
room,"  said  Kate.   "It  would  stand  as  an  example." 

20I 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

Ainger  was  doing  his  best  to  make  it  do  so. 

"Yes,  ma'am?  Yes,  sir?"  he  said,  without  raising  hh 
eyes. 

"There  are  messages  to  be  taken,"  said  Mr.  Glare. 

"I  have  seen  that  the  word  is  passed,  sir." 

"And  directions  to  be  given.  Your  mistress  must  be 
spared." 

"I  was  not  proposing  to  approach  her,  sir.  Matters  are 
on  foot." 

"And  the  children  should  be  told,"  said  Flavia.  "They 
must  not  hear  from  anyone  but  me." 

"Then  it  should  be  soon,  ma'am.  Ill  news  travels 
apace." 

"Perhaps  you  will  bring  them  to  us." 

"If  I  may  suggest  it,  ma'am,  would  not  their  own 
quarters  be  the  right  background?" 

"What  do  you  think?"  said  Flavia,  to  her  father-in- 
law. 

"I  should  say  that  those  are  better  without  the  memory. 
We  cannot  make  it  a  good  one." 

"It  is  a  point  of  view,  sir,"  said  Ainger,  turning  to  the 
door. 

"Only  our  own,"  said  Mr.  Clare,  "but  we  will  hold  to  it. 
As  the  young  man  dealt  with  my  son,  so  will  I  deal  with 
him.  But  he  must  fill  his  own  place." 


202 


CHAPTER   XIII 

The  children  entered  the  room,  their  faces  pale  with 
apprehension.  The  change  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
house  had  seemed  to  come  to  meet  them.  Henry  and 
Megan  hung  back,  as  though  in  fear  of  some  ordeal. 
Bennet  closed  the  door  and  remained  within  it,  not  with- 
drawing the  support  of  her  presence. 

"My  little  ones,"  said  Flavia,  opening  her  arms  to  the 
five,  "I  have  something  sad  to  tell  you,  something  so  sad 
that  you  will  not  guess  what  it  is." 

"Is  it  Father?"  said  Megan  at  once.  "Didn't  he  get 
better  this  time?" 

"My  little  girl,  it  is  Father.  But  this  time  was  not  like 
the  last.  He  had  an  ordinary  illness  and  did  not  recover." 

"Is  he  dead?"  said  Guy.  "Shan't  we  ever  see  him 
again?" 

"You  will  not,  my  little  son.  You  only  have  your 
mother  now." 

"Fabian  and  Guy  have  another  mother,"  said  Henry, 
after  a  pause.  "That  will  make  it  better  for  them.  They 
still  have  tv/o  parents.   They  are  not  left  with  only  one." 

"Yes,  it  gives  them  more  to  depend  on.  But  it  will  not 
make  up  for  their  father.  This  is  a  trouble  we  must  all 
share  together." 

Toby  looked  enquiringly  from  face  to  face,  and  Flavia 
took  him  on  her  knee  and  rested  her  cheek  against  his. 

"My  baby  boy,  you  always  loved  your  father." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,  Toby  love  him.    Not  Henry  and  Guy." 

"Yes,  you  all  loved  him." 

"No,  only  Toby." 

"Father  has  gone  to  sleep  and  will  not  wake  up  any 
more." 

"Ob,  yes,"  said  Toby,  getting  off  her  knee.  "Toby  lie 
down  too.  But  both  quite  well  again." 

"Where  has  Father  gone?"  said  Henry. 

"No  one  can  know  that." 

"I  don't  think  he  wanted  to  go  away  from  here,"  said 
Megan.   "I  think  he  hked  it  better  than  he  thought." 

"Did  his  illness  hurt  him?"  said  Henry,  causing  his 
sister  to  shrink  into  herself. 

"No,  not  at  all,"  said  his  mother.  "He  just  felt  ill  and 
tired." 

"Was  he  a  very  old  man?" 

"No,  only  middle-aged.  He  wdll  never  know  what  it  is 
to  be  old." 

Fabian  came  up  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  stepmother's 
shoulder,  and  Guy  began  to  weep  and  threw  himself 
against  her. 

"I  haven't  had  a  mother  like  other  boys.  And  now  I 
haven't  a  father.  Why  does  it  have  to  be  like  that?" 

Flavia  kept  him  within  her  arm,  and  Toby  soberly 
regarded  the  occupation  of  his  place. 

"Eliza  says  people  go  to  heaven  when  they  die,"  said 
Henry.    "But  only  if  they  are  good  enough." 

"Father  was  good  enough,"  said  Megan.  "Everyone  is 
supposed  to  be  in  heaven,  and  they  can't  all  be  better 
than  he  was.  And  I  think  he  was  better  than  he  seemed  to 
be," 

"Anyhow  he  wasn't  bad  enough  to  go  anywhere  else." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Hush,  hush,"  said  Bcnnet.  "He  loved  you  very  much, 
and  that  is  all  you  need  to  know." 

"I  suppose  there  are  different  kinds  of  love.  Some  of 
them  almost  seem  like  something  else." 

"We  can  only  love  according  to  ourselves,"  said  Fabian, 
speaking  for  the  first  time.  "We  cannot  alter  our  natures." 

"We  still  have  Bennet,"  said  Megan,  in  a  voice  that  just 
disclaimed  despair. 

"She  might  die  at  any  time,"  said  Henry.  "She  is 
nearly  as  old  as  Father." 

"No,  I  shall  not  die.   You  need  not  think  about  that." 

"This  makes  you  think  about  things.  Grandpa  would 
have  been  a  better  person  to  die." 

"It  is  the  truth,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"Do  you  wish  you  had  died  instead  of  Father?" 

"It  would  have  been  my  choice,  if  I  had  had  one." 

Megan  ceased  to  struggle  with  her  tears,  and  Guy 
moved  towards  her  and  they  wept  together. 

"Toby  not  cry,"  said  the  latter.    "Very  brave  boy." 

"A  child,  ma'am!"  said  Ainger.  "He  thinks  as  a  child 
and  understands  as  a  child.  It  is  not  his  time  to  put  away 
childish  things." 

"I  feel  I  have  hardly  done  so  until  to-day,"  said  Flavia. 

"I  have  something  of  the  same  feeling,  ma'am." 

"Did  Father  know  he  made  so  much  difference?"  said 
Henry.  "If  he  had  known,  he  might  have  tried  to  make 
more." 

"It  is  we  who  know  it,  sir,"  said  Ainger. 

"Is  it  possible  that  he  knows?"  said  Guy. 

"I  should  say  it  is  probable,  sir,  if  not  a  certainty." 

"Shall  we  still  have  to  come  down  after  luncheon?"  said 
Henry  to  his  mother. 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Yes,  things  will  be  just  as  Father  had  them.  We  shall 
make  no  difference." 

"That  is  done  for  us,  ma'am,"  said  Ainger. 

"We  shan't  be  poorer,  shall  we?  Like  some  people 
when  the  father  is  dead?  Father  didn't  earn  any  money." 

"He  was  not  called  upon  to  do  so,  sir,"  said  Ainger. 

"Do  you  mind  his  being  dead?" 

"As  much  as  I  could  mind  anything,  sir." 

"But  he  was  not  your  relation." 

"He  was  always  a  friend  to  me,  sir." 

"We  are  glad  that  Ainger  feels  with  us,"  said  Flavia. 

"Neither  of  you  seems  very  different,"  said  Henry. 

"Still  waters  run  deep,  sir,"  said  Ainger.  "Not  that  I 
make  claims  or  aspire  to  comparisons." 

"Do  people  feel  more,  the  less  they  show  it?"  said 
Megan. 

"We  have  to  suppress  ourselves,  miss.  It  is  the  braver 
course." 

"Bravery  seems  to  be  more  for  other  people  than  for 
yourself,"  said  Henry. 

"That  is  what  constitutes  it,  sir." 

"Did  Father  wish  we  had  loved  him  more  than  we 
did?"  said  Guy. 

"He  knew  he  was  not  easy  to  understand,"  said  Flavia. 
"He  would  hardly  have  expected  children  to  understand 
him." 

"He  seemed  to  expect  it,"  said  Henry.  "And  I  think 
we  did  understand  him,  or  anyhow  Megan  did.  That  may 
make  it  better  for  her  now.  Shall  we  have  the  same  life 
upstairs?" 

"Yes,  that  will  not  be  different.  But  you  will  not  feel  it 
is  the  same." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Why  shan't  we,  if  it  is?" 

"Ah,  sir,  time  will  show  you,"  said  Ainger.  "You  need 
not  go  to  meet  it." 

"I  suppose  you  are  a  widow,"  said  Henry  to  his  mother. 
"Is  Fabian's  mother  a  widow  too,  or  can  there  only  be 
one?" 

"There  can  only  be  one,"  said  Megan.  "There  could 
only  be  one  wife." 

"What  is  Grandpa?"  said  Henry. 

"There  is  no  word  for  it,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Clare. 

"What  am  I,  sir?"  said  Ainger.  "There  is  no  word  for 
it  either." 

"Would  Father  be  surprised  by  people's  minding  his 
dying  so  much?" 

"I  think  he  might  be,"  said  Megan.  "I  think  people 
liked  him  better  than  he  knew." 

"Ah,  miss,  we  find  that,  when  a  call  comes,"  said 
Ainger. 

"I  wish  he  had  known  how  much  I  liked  him,"  said 
Megan. 

"I  don't  think  I  wish  it,"  said  Henry.  "I  am  not  sure 
how  much  I  did.  Sometimes  I  liked  him  better  than  at 
other  times.  And  he  seemed  the  same  with  me." 

"When  I  am  older,  I  shan't  have  a  father,"  said  Megan. 
"And  when  I  am  a  woman,  I  shan't  have  one.  And  some 
people  have  one  always." 

"A  sad  case,  ma'am.  But  this  is  even  sadder,"  said 
Ainger,  as  Toby  went  past.  "He  will  not  remember  the 
master." 

"I  almost  wish  I  didn't  remember  him,"  said  Henry. 
"Then  I  could  think  things  were  better  than  they  were. 
Perhaps  I  shall  forget." 

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THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

*'I  think  he  loved  us  more  than  he  seemed  to,"  said  Guy. 
"It  seems  that  a  person's  dying  makes  you  know  more 
about  him." 

"Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes,  ma'am!"  said  Ainger. 

"I  think  it  makes  you  exaggerate  things,"  said  Henry. 
"The  good  part  of  him  and  the  bad  part  of  yourself." 

"Again  there  is  truth  in  it,  ma'am." 

"We  wish  we  had  been  different,"  said  Fabian.  "But  if 
the  person  came  back,  we  should  be  the  same." 

Ainger  smiled  at  his  mistress  in  lieu  of  words. 

"And  the  person  would  be  the  same  too,"  said  Henry. 

"Poor  boy!"  said  Mr.  Clare,  to  himself. 

"Was  Father  really  a  boy  to  Grandpa?"  said  Henry. 

"We  are  always  children  to  our  parents,"  said  Flavia, 

"He  was  a  child  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Clare.  "He  saw  me  as 
he  always  had.  For  me  it  is  a  man's  and  a  woman's  grief." 

"Would  Father  have  minded  losing  you  as  much  as  you 
mind  losing  him?"  said  Henry. 

"  No,  it  would  have  been  in  the  order  of  things.  But  I 
am  wrong.   He  would  have  minded  as  much." 

"That  is  the  line  of  my  own  thought,  sir,"  said  Ainger. 

"I  think  the  children  should  come  upstairs  now,"  said 
Bennet. 

Toby  turned  and  ran  towards  the  door. 

"Good-bye,  Ainger;  good-bye,  Father,"  he  said,  waving 
his  hand. 

"Father  is  not  there  any  more,"  said  Bennet. 

"Not  there  any  more.   So  Toby  say  good-bye." 

They  all  went  together  to  the  nursery,  the  elder  boys 
yielding  to  the  instinct  to  relapse  into  childhood.  They 
found  Miss  Ridley  awaiting  them,  and  accepted  her 
presence  as  her  tribute  to  the  occasion. 

208 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Well,  shall  I  read  to  you  all?"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of 
subdued  cheerfulness. 

"I  would  rather  talk,"  said  Fabian. 

"What  is  there  to  talk  about?"  said  Henry.  "There  is 
the  one  thing,  and  we  have  talked  about  that." 

"Can  Father  see  us  now?"  said  Megan. 

"Yes,  all  the  time,"  said  Bennet. 

"Can  he  hear  us?"  said  Henry.  "And  see  into  our 
hearts?" 

"It  is  better  to  do  what  he  would  wish,"  said  Miss 
Ridley,  "and  to  leave  that  kind  of  question." 

"Why  do  we  talk  as  if  he  was  so  much  better  than  he 
was?  Was  he  such  a  very  good  man?" 

"I  think  perhaps  he  was  in  his  heart,"  said  Guy. 

"You  may  be  quite  right,  Guy,"  said  Miss  Ridley. 
"That  is  what  I  think." 

"Goodness  in  the  heart  isn't  much  use  to  people,"  said 
Henry.   "It  would  be  better  almost  anywhere  else." 

There  was  some  amusement  that  was  immediately 
checked. 

"Is  it  wrong  to  laugh  to-day?"  said  Henry,  on  a  ruthless 
note. 

"It  is  not  very  suitable,"  said  Miss  Ridley.  "And  we  do 
not  feel  inclined  to  do  so." 

"Are  we  supposed  never  to  be  happy  again?" 

"No,  of  course  you  are  not,"  said  Bennet.  "Father 
would  want  you  to  be  happy." 

"He  didn't  seem  to  want  it.  Sometimes  he  threw  a 
gloom  over  us.  Oughtn't  we  to  speak  the  truth  about 
someone  who  is  dead?" 

"We  should  speak  the  whole  truth,"  said  Fabian.  "Not 
only  the  worse  part  of  it." 

209 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"We  are  supposed  to  speak  only  good,"  said  Guy. 

"Then  there  would  be  some  people  we  could  not  speak 
about  at  all." 

"If  I  could  choose  one  thing,"  said  Megan,  in  a  tone 
that  showed  she  had  not  heard,  "it  would  be  to  have 
Father  alive  again." 

"I  am  sure  it  would,"  said  Bennet. 

"Why  are  you  sure?"  said  Henry.  "He  didn't  make 
much  difference  to  her.  Sometimes  he  made  her 
cry. 

"But  only  because  he  felt  in  that  mood,"  said  Megan. 
"Not  because  in  his  heart  he  wanted  to." 

"We  had  a  father  like  that,"  said  Henry,  "and  now  we 
haven't  one  at  all.   Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!" 

"Now  I  thought  we  had  come  to  the  end  of  that,"  said 
Eliza. 

"Some  things  can't  come  to  an  end.  Things  happen 
that  make  them  begin  again." 

"I  think  it  is  natural  to  say  it  to-day,"  said  Bennet, 
accepting  any  sign  of  conventional  feeling. 

"How  nicely  Toby  is  playing  by  himself!"  said  Eliza, 
who  had  not  lost  hold  of  life  in  its  ordinary  aspects. 

"Shall  we  see  Mater  again  before  we  go  to  bed?"  said 
Henry.   "There  doesn't  seem  any  reason." 

"She  will  come  up  to  say  good-night  to  you,"  said  Miss 
Ridley. 

"She  doesn't  always." 

"I  am  sure  she  will  to-night." 

"Tell  her  Toby  play  by  himself,"  said  Toby,  pulling  at 
Eliza's  sleeve. 

As  Flavia  crossed  the  hall  on  her  way  to  the  staircase,  a 
figure  moved  from  behind  it. 

2IO 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"I  heard  an  hour  ago.  I  have  a  word  to  say.  I  have 
come  at  once  to  say  it.  You  must  foresee  it.  You  shall 
not  have  it  before  you.  I  came  into  your  life  and  broke  it. 
I  can  only  withdraw.  Cassius  gave  me  what  he  could. 
I  took  all  he  had.  I  was  too  sunk  in  myself  to  know  it.  I 
am  guilty  in  all  eyes.  I  am  guilty  indeed  in  yours.  I  am 
most  guilty  in  my  own.  I  felt  it  when  Cassius  was  ill  the 
first  time.  Now  I  feel  it  enough  to  say  it.  I  am  leaving 
the  place.  I  will  not  stay  to  harass  you.  I  will  not  add  to 
the  remorse  that  is  yours  and  mine.  It  will  be  mine  to  the 
end.  But  that  is  no  help  to  you.  I  can  help  you  by 
leaving  you.    I  will  give  you  that  help." 

*'How  about  the  boys?"  said  Flavia,  as  though  this 
were  all  that  need  be  said,  and  protest  or  question  were 
out  of  place. 

"I  have  no  right  to  answer  that  question.  I  have 
forfeited  the  right.  I  took  everything  for  myself.  I  will 
take  what  I  am  given." 

"If  you  leave  the  place,  they  must  choose  between  you 
and  me.  They  must  either  go  with  you  or  make  this 
house  their  home.  There  can  be  no  middle  course.  It  is 
for  them  to  decide." 

"I  see  that  it  is.  I  do  not  deserve  that  it  should  be.  I 
do  not  deserve  their  free  judgement  and  choice.  I  should 
have  had  a  right  to  ask  it,  if  I  had  asked  no  more.  I  will 
not  think  what  I  asked  and  took." 

"I  am  going  to  them  now.  I  will  find  out  what  they 
choose;  this  life  or  another,  your  home  or  mine.  It  is 
better  for  me  to  ask  them.  I  am  still  the  familiar  figure 
and  shall  meet  the  natural  response." 

*'I  will  not  stand  between  you.  I  will  not  even  stand 
aside.   I  will  wait  or  return,  as  you  bid  me." 

211 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"You  may  wait,"  said  Flavia,  in  an  empty  tone.  "It  is 
what  I  should  do  in  your  place." 

She  went  upstairs,  a  lisdess  figure,  while  Catherine 
stood,  vital  and  tense,  below.  The  force  that  emanated 
from  her  seemed  to  be  held  in  bonds  to  herself. 

Flavia  approaciied  the  children  as  though  she  hardly 
saw  them,  as  though  held  by  her  thought.  Bennet  stood 
with  grave  eyes,  stricken  by  the  thought  of  further  strain 
on  them.  Miss  Ridley  put  a  chair  for  Flavia  in  tribute  to 
her  bereavement.  The  latter  sat  down  and  beckoned  to 
the  elder  boys. 

"My  sons,  I  have  to  ask  you  one  thing,  and  to  ask  you 
to  tell  me  the  truth.  It  is  a  turning-point  in  your  lives. 
Your  mother  is  leaving  the  place;  I  mean  your  own 
mother.  Do  you  choose  to  go  with  her  or  to  stay  here  with 
me?   Take  your  time  and  think  only  of  the  truth." 

"Stay  here  with  you,"  said  Guy  at  once,  "where  we 
have  always  been." 

"Take  your  time,  Fabian,  and  keep  your  mind  on  the 
truth.   You  are  not  responsible  for  it." 

"It  is  a  hard  question,"  said  her  stepson,  after  a  pause 
that  told  of  obedience  rather  than  need.  "We  must  be 
drawn  in  two  ways.  You  have  been  the  mother  of  our 
childhood,  and  that  seems  to  be  the  greatest  thing.  But 
our  childhood  will  pass.  And  only  a  real  mother  can  be  a 
mother  to  men.  The  time  will  get  nearer  and  nearer. 
We  must  think  of  the  whole  of  our  lives." 

"You  choose  to  go  with  your  own  mother?" 

"Yes,  I  choose  that." 

Guy  spoke  through  tears  and  threw  his  arms  round  his 
stepmother. 

"I  don't  want  to  leave  you.    I  don't  want  to  go  away 

212 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

from  you.  I  don't  want  anyone  as  much  as  I  want  you. 
I  shall  never  be  glad  I  have  left  you.  Not  even  when  I 
have  a  real  mother,  not  even  when  I  am  a  man.  But  I 
must  go  with  Fabian.  To  live  without  him  would  be  the 
same  as  being  dead." 

Flavia  answered  in  an  even  tone,  almost  as  though  she 
were  quoting  the  words. 

"You  are  right  to  make  the  honest  choice.  And  it  may 
be  the  wise  one.  We  shall  always  have  our  feeling  for 
each  other.  It  will  always  remain  between  us.  I  shall  be 
the  mother  of  your  childhood,  as  you  will  be  the  sons  of 
my  youth.   If  there  is  nothing  else,  it  is  enough." 

Guy's  voice  came  in  a  shaken  whisper,  audible  only  to 
Flavia  and  himself. 

"But  I  shall  be  a  boy  for  a  long  time.  And  a  mother 
does  not  matter  so  much  to  men." 

"Are  Fabian  and  Guy  going  to  leave  us?"  said  Megan, 
whose  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  the  scene.  "To  leave  us  as 
well  as  Father?" 

"My  poor  little  girl,  it  is  a  time  of  change  indeed." 

"Aren't  they  ever  coming  back?"  said  Henry.  "There 
is  not  much  meaning  in  a  family,  if  it  breaks  apart." 

"Not  to  live  with  us.  They  will  come  to  see  us,  of 
course." 

"And  each  time  they  come  they  will  be  different,"  said 
Megan.  "And  each  time  we  shall  be  different  too.  And 
at  last  we  shall  be  too  different  to  know  each  other." 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  Bennet's  was  the  silence  that 
spoke. 

Flavia  returned  to  Catherine  and  found  her  quiet  and 
still,  as  though  she  had  no  right  to  impatience.  She  lifted 
her  eyes  at  once,  keeping  them  under  her  command. 

213 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"They  choose  to  go  with  you,"  said  Flavia.  "Or  rather 
Fabian  chooses  it,  and  Guy  will  go  with  his  brother." 

"He  chooses  you  as  his  mother?" 

"Yes,  he  chooses  me  as  that." 

"I  am  glad  he  does.  I  do  not  take  everything.  I  leave 
as  much  as  I  take.  I  am  glad  it  is  yours.  I  am  glad  he 
gives  it  to  you.   You  and  I  arc  equal  to  each  other." 

"I  hope  he  will  not  suffer,"  said  Flavia,  as  if  her 
thought  broke  out.  "He  is  so  young.  What  if  things  go 
hard  with  him?" 

"I  will  talk  to  him  of  you.  He  shall  talk  of  you  to  me. 
I  will  see  you  through  his  eyes.  I  will  always  do  so.  He 
shall  come  to  you  without  me  between  you.  I  will  see  I 
am  never  that.  And  with  Fabian  it  shall  be  the  same.  I 
know  by  what  a  feeble  thread  I  hold  him." 

"He  feels  he  will  need  his  own  mother  when  he  is  a 
man.      He  is  old  enough  to  see  the  future." 

"Do  you  not  see  it  too?"  said  Catherine,  in  her  quick, 
low  tones.  "Do  you  not  see  the  further  time?  When  you 
will  have  your  children  by  themselves,  without  those  of 
another  woman?  As  it  is  natural  for  you  to  have  them. 
As  it  is  natural  for  you  to  be  seen  with  them.  Is  there  not, 
will  there  not  be,  a  recompense  there?" 

Flavia  looked  into  her  face,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a 
third  presence  in  the  hall,  the  difference  between  them. 


214 


CHAPTER   XIV 

Where  is  Catherine?"  said  Elton  to  his  sister.  "Has 
she  gone  to  sympathise  with  Flavia?" 

"No,  she  feels  she  has  no  right  to  do  so.  I  think  she  has 
gone  to  take  leave  of  her." 

"Has  anything  happened  to  their  friendship?" 

"I  believe  it  has  come  to  an  end  with  Cassius.  It  seems 
to  have  somehow  depended  on  him." 

"Then  will  she  always  be  at  home  with  us?" 

"You  can  think  for  yourself.  Don't  you  see  her  eyes  rest 
on  us  in  compunction  and  pity?" 

"Ursula,  do  you  realise  what  your  words  imply?" 

"Well,  I  hardly  dare  to  do  so." 

"Has  she  any  real  feeling  for  us?" 

"She  has  the  right  feeling  and  conquers  any  other. 
She  is  true  to  her  vision  of  herself.  She  is  really  true  to 
it." 

"What  was  the  bond  between  her  and  Flavia,  apart 
from  their  experience  with  Cassius?" 

"They  wanted  no  other.  That  gave  them  the  scope  they 
needed.   They  could  pity  and  suffer  and  forgive." 

"So  you  are  on  Cassius's  side?" 

"Well,  he  is  dead,  and  when  he  was  alive,  he  could  not 
live  with  my  sister." 

"Considering  what  we  owe  to  the  dead,  and  that  every- 
one dies,"  said  Elton,  "it  is  a  wonder  we  manage  as  well 
as  we  do.  And  we  do  a  good  deal  for  the  living,  consider- 

215 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

ing  we  owe  them  nothing.  But  have  we  done  anything  for 
Catherine?" 

"We  have  simply  gone  on  Hving  with  each  other.  I 
have  been  afraid  she  would  notice  it." 

"Docs  she  think  she  is  necessary  to  us?" 

"It  has  not  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  not  be." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  an  expression  cross  my  face,  that 
reminded  you  of  her?" 

"Well,  I  have  not  spoken  of  it,  as  I  have  seen  the  same 
thing  in  the  glass.  But  you  may  speak  of  it.  It  will  be 
easier  to  bear  it  together." 

"Does  it  mean  a  likeness  underneath?" 

"No,  it  is  only  skin-deep,  as  beauty  would  be,  if  we  had 
it.   It  is  fair  that  they  should  be  the  same." 

"Do  you  think  we  have  qualities  in  common?  Are  wc 
all  prone  to  admire  ourselves?" 

"No,  you  and  I  live  over  a  deep  uncertainty.  And 
Catherine  does  not  admire  herself  until  she  has  arranged 
some  reason  for  doing  so." 

"She  is  coming  up  the  path,"  said  Elton.  "And  I  don't 
think  she  has  arranged  any  reason.  Can  it  be  that  for  an 
hour  she  has  been  without  one?" 

"I  should  hardly  think  for  as  much  as  an  hour,"  said 
Ursula. 

Catherine  came  into  the  room  and  paused  in  her  usual 
way. 

"I  have  done  it.  I  have  been  to  my  friend.  I  have 
broken  our  friendship.  It  was  a  strange  one.  Good  has 
not  come  of  it.   It  is  time  for  it  to  end." 

"I  thought  that  friendships  died  of  themselves,"  said 
Elton,  "and  that  no  one  could  explain  it." 

"Perhaps  this  one  has  done  so.    Perhaps  it  carried  its 

216 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

death  knell  in  it.    It  may  be  that  ordinary  things  are  the 
right  stuff  of  life." 

"Well,  that  would  explain  life  as  we  find  it,"  said 
Ursula, 

"We  tried  to  steer  a  course  beyond  them.  We  thought 
we  could  do  what  others  could  not  do." 

"Don't  we  always  think  that?" 

"We  should  not  act  upon  it." 

"I  did  not  know  we  ever  did." 

"I  did,  and  harm  came  of  it,  I  harmed  the  man  who 
was  once  my  husband.  I  harmed  him  when  he  tried  to 
serve  me.  And  I  thought  I  could  not  harm  anyone.  The 
common  words  are  true.   Pride  goes  before  a  fall." 

"It  goes  after  it,"  said  her  sister.  "A  fall  involves 
tragedy,  and  it  is  so  dignified  to  suffer." 

"But  not  to  cause  suffering." 

"Perhaps  that  is  tragedy  at  its  height." 

"Humiliation  at  its  depth,"  said  Catherine,  standing 
with  her  hands  clasped.  "The  image  of  Cassius  lives 
with  me.  Cassius  harmed  by  his  own  hand,  and  that  hand 
really  mine.  Cassius  lying  dead  as  the  result  of  my  return 
to  his  fife." 

"Surely  that  is  not  true,"  said  Ursula. 

"The  one  thing  followed  from  the  other,  I  caused  the 
first  trouble,  and  but  for  that,  help  would  have  come  in 
the  second,   I  will  not  turn  from  the  truth," 

"I  will,"  said  Elton,  "I  see  we  were  wrong  about 
Cassius.  But  I  will  not  be  brave  enough  to  admit  it. 
Moral  courage  drags  one  down," 

"He  was  not  like  other  men,"  said  Ursula.  "We  are 
supposed  to  think  that  of  ourselves,  and  we  think  it  of 
him.   But  Catherine  was  not  to  blame  for  his  nature." 

217 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Was  he  to  blame  for  it?"  said  her  sister.  "It  had  its 
claim.  I  knew  him.  We  had  cause  to  know  each  other. 
Knowing  me,  he  served  me  to  the  end  of  his  power.  How 
did  I  serve  him?" 

"Service  is  too  much  for  anyone.  It  seems  that  people 
either  fail  in  it  or  that  it  ends  in  their  death.  And  we  have 
to  take  the  blame  for  our  natures.  Elton  and  I  have 
always  done  so." 

"Their  demand  should  be  met.  It  is  the  basis  of  human 
intercourse." 

"That  is  at  the  bottom  of  everything.  It  is  odd  that  we 
do  not  try  to  manage  without  it." 

"It  constitutes  human  life.   And  I  have  failed  in  it." 

"Well,  we  all  fail  in  life,"  said  Ursula. 

"We  miss  success.   But  that  does  not  matter." 

"Do  you  really  think  Elton  and  I  have  missed  it?" 

"And  that  it  does  not  matter?"  said  her  brother. 

"  You  are  good  to  me.  You  would  lift  my  burden. 
But  it  is  mine.    I  must  carry  it." 

"Would  it  hurt  anyone  if  you  cast  it  down?" 

"It  would  hurt  myself.  It  would  harden  my  heart. 
And  its  hardness  has  done  enough.  I  must  suffer  what  I 
must." 

"You  make  too  much  of  it,"  said  Elton.  "Cassius  had 
had  a  great  deal  of  his  life." 

"Not  as  much  as  you  think  at  your  age." 

"I  am  one  of  those  people  who  have  never  been 
young." 

"And  I  am  sure  I  am  one  of  those  who  were  never  a 
child,"  said  Ursula. 

"I  remember  you  both  as  children." 

"We  are  talking  of  our  memory  of  ourselves." 

218 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  making  changes  in  it?" 

"Well,  only  for  the  better,"  said  Ursula. 

"You  were  never  old  for  your  ages." 

"Well,  we  should  hardly  have  been  precocious." 

"I  almost  think  you  were  behind  them." 

"Well,  we  may  have  been  the  kind  of  people  to  develop 
late." 

"Cassius  was  not  of  the  age  to  die,"  said  Catherine. 

"What  is  the  age?"  said  her  sister. 

"About  seventy,"  said  Elton,  "when  we  have  had  our 
span,  and  people  have  not  begun  to  think  less  of  us." 

"Do  you  think  less  of  old  people?"  said  Catherine. 

"No,  I  admire  them  for  having  had  their  lives  and 
being  sure  of  them.  But  that  is  rare.  Most  people  despise 
them  for  not  being  able  to  eat  their  cake  and  have  it, 
even  though  it  is  only  the  chance  of  it." 

"Do  you  feel  that  life  is  so  uncertain?" 

"Well,  I  feel  that  mine  is  safe.  But  I  like  to  talk  of  the 
uncertainty;  it  sounds  so  brave." 

"It  is  braver  than  not  being  able  to  speak  of  it  at  all, 
like  most  people,"  said  Ursula.  "Speaking  of  a  thing 
makes  it  real,  and  that  does  mean  too  much  with  such  a 
subject." 

"So  much  in  life  needs  courage,"  said  Catherine. 

"Almost  everything,"  said  her  sister.  "We  even  talk  of 
daring  to  be  ourselves.  Though  I  expect  we  mean  daring 
to  show  ourselves,  and  naturally  that  would  need  it." 

"Some  people  dare  to  do  that,"  said  Elton,  "though  you 
might  not  believe  it.  Think  of  Miss  Ridley." 

"Must  we  think  of  her?"  said  Ursula.  "She  shows  a 
cheerful  spirit,  and  she  may  be  homeless  at  any  moment." 

"If  I  were  a  governess,"  said  Elton,  "and  I  do  not  mean 

219 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

a  tutor,  people  would  not  feel  the  house  was  home  without 
me.   So  the  power  would  be  mine,  and  I  should  use  it." 

"Well,  if  you  did  not,  what  good  would  it  be?  People 
think  it  natural  to  want  power,  and  wrong  to  exercise  it. 
They  are  inconsistent,  or  rather  they  have  grudging  hearts. 
I  expect  it  is  the  same  thing." 

"It  is  hard  to  say  where  power  has  lain  in  that  house," 
said  Catherine. 
"What  a  dark  way  you  speak  of  it!"  said  Elton. 
"You  forget  it  was  once  my  home." 
"Well,  there  is  nothing  to  remind  me  of  it." 
"I  was  always  an  alien.    I  felt  less  so  when  I  returned. 
And  now  I  am  an  alien  again.   There  is  nothing  to  hold 
me  to  it.   My  link  with  it  was  Cassius,  although  we  were 
estranged.     Not   Flavia,    although   we   were   friends.     I 
ought  to  have  eschewed  that  friendship.    I  see  it  was  a 
furtive  thing." 

"We  could  not  eschew  things  because  of  that,"  said 
Ursula.  "We  should  have  to  give  up  so  many  of  our  small 
pleasures;  some  of  them  because  they  were  so  small." 
"Tell  me  one  of  them,"  said  Elton. 
"Feeling  superior  to  Miss  Ridley,  because  my  position 
is  better  than  hers." 

"Why  is  it  better?"  said  Catherine.  "It  is  not  more 
respected." 

"Things  that  we  do  not  respect,  like  money  and  ease  and 
leisure,  are  such  good  things.  And  we  should  respect 
them,  if  we  were  allowed  to." 

"Miss  Ridley  will  stay  on  with  the  younger  children. 
They  have  to  be  prepared  for  life." 

"Life  has  to  be  what  it  is,"  said  Elton,  "but  fancy  pre- 
paring people  for  it!  It  seems  like  helping  it  all  to  go  on." 

220 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Why  do  we  feel  that  governesses  are  not  Hke  other 
people?"  said  Ursula. 

"They  begin  like  other  people,  and  are  moulded  by 
their  life,  as  we  all  are,"  said  her  sister.  "I  have  a  par- 
ticular respect  for  them." 

"Oh,  I  don't  really  respect  anyone  ebe.  Perhaps  that  is 
what  I  meant." 

"You  should  not  mean  things,"  said  Elton.  "You  ought 
to  be  above  it." 

"Did  Gassius  respect  Miss  Ridley?"  said  Ursula. 

"I  believe  he  would  have  found  her  a  friend,  if  he  had 
thought  of  it,"  said  Catherine. 

"I  did  not  know  he  was  so  unmanly,"  said  Elton. 

"How  much  will  the  children  miss  him?"  said  Ursula. 

"I  do  not  know  their  life  behind  the  scenes." 

"I  should  think  they  will  miss  him  more  than  that,"  said 
Elton.   "How  much  will  Flavia  do  so?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Catherine. 

"You  have  told  me,"  said  her  brother. 

"You  claim  to  read  too  much  into  people's  words. 
The  line  seems  to  strike  you  as  a  good  one." 

"Catherine,  do  not  throw  off  all  disguise.  I  cannot  bear 
people  to  stand  exposed." 

"Does  Flavia  suffer  from  remorse?"  said  Ursula. 

"If  we  speak  of  remorse,  I  can  only  think  of  my  own." 

"But  try  to  think  of  Flavia's.  I  want  a  complete 
picture." 

"Are  you  interested  or  only  curious?"  said  Catherine. 

"I  do  not  know  the  difference,  and  I  do  not  believe 
there  is  any." 

"Is  your  heart  involved  or  only  your  head?" 

"Well,  I  like  to  be  purely  intellectual." 

221 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Then  I  will  not  tell  you.  And  Elton  need  not  say  1 
have  done  so." 

"No,  there  is  no  need,"  said  her  brother. 

"Why  are  we  talking  in  this  way?" 

"It  is  to  stave  something  off,"  said  Elton.  "I  do  not 
dare  say  what." 

"I  must  dare  to,"  said  Catherine,  again  clasping  her 
hands.  "It  is  the  word  about  the  future.  I  have  had  to 
face  the  truth.  My  presence  here  is  harmful.  I  will  do 
no  more  harm.  I  have  to  break  something  to  you.  Some- 
thing that  does  harm  to  you.  I  seem  to  live  to  cause 
it." 

"You  are  going  to  leave  us,"  said  Elton. 

"You  are  good  to  me.  You  save  me  the  words.  I  wish 
I  could  be  good  to  you.  From  my  heart  I  wish  it.  But  I 
must  go  from  this  place.  I  am  a  menace  to  it.  I  have  to 
say  it  of  myself.  For  years  I  deserted  you.  I  have  to  desert 
you  again." 

"Do  you  feel  you  can  leave  the  boys?"  said  Ursula. 

"I  felt  I  could  not.  But  it  was  no  matter  what  I  felt. 
It  was  a  thing  of  no  account.  I  asked  Flavia  to  advise  me. 
To  direct  me;  I  would  have  obeyed.  She  asked  my  sons 
to  choose  between  her  and  me." 

"And  they  chose  their  own  mother?"  said  Ursula. 

"Fabian  did  so.  Guy  chose  to  go  with  his  brother.  In 
his  heart  he  chose  his  stepmother.  It  is  for  me  to  see  that 
in  his  heart  he  always  chooses  her." 

"Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  to  transfer  the  feeling 
to  you?" 

"I  have  no  claim.  I  ask  for  nothing.  I  am  to  have  too 
much.  I  fear  the  kindness  of  fate.  I  have  feared  it  before. 
It  seems  I  am  to  live  in  the  fear." 

222 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"It  should  be  a  good  life,"  said  Elton.  "How  soon  will 
you  be  embarking  on  it?  We  must  accept  the  truth." 

"My  brother,  it  must  be  soon.  To  wait  would  again  do 
harm.  My  sons  must  make  the  change  at  once.  To  look 
forward  to  it  is  to  suffer.  And  Flavia  and  I  must  part. 
We  have  parted  in  spirit.  And  I  would  not  stay,  if  I 
could.  I  have  become  a  sinister  presence.  And  now  I  will 
thank  you  and  leave  you.  You  have  things  to  talk  of 
together." 

"We  have  one  thing,"  said  Elton,  as  the  door  closed, 
"our  life  without  Catherine.  They  say  that  things  are 
never  the  same  a  second  time,  but  this  will  be  the  same. 
I  shall  pour  out  the  tea,  and  you  will  order  the  house." 

"But  we  shall  not  see  a  human  story  unfolding  before  our 
eyes." 

"And  ending  in  tragedy.  I  know  we  shall  miss  all  that." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  Catherine?  Do  you  believe  what  she 
says  of  herself?" 

"I  believe  part  of  it.  So  of  course  I  am  afraid.  And  she 
does  not  believe  even  part  of  what  we  say  of  ourselves, 
and  that  makes  me  more  so." 

"Do  you  believe  it  all  yourself?" 

"Well,  we  are  known  to  be  sometimes  surprised  by 
ourselves." 

"I  don't  think  we  often  are.  Even  less  often  than  by 
other  people.   So  we  are  glad  that  Catherine  is  going." 

"Ought  we  to  be  as  much  surprised  by  ourselves  as 
that?" 

"She  sees  the  life  she  wanted,  opening  before  her.  It 
seems  a  good  deal  for  someone  who  asks  nothing." 

"But  we  do  not  feel  she  ought  not  to  take  it,"  said 
Elton.  "We  should  have  to  be  too  much  surprised." 

223 


THE    PRESENT    AND    THE    PAST 

"Whom  are  you  sorriest  for  in  the  whole  sad  tale?" 
"Cassius,  because  he  is  dead.    Guy  has  lost  a  mother; 

Fla\ia  a  friend;    the  children  have  lost  a  father.    But  he 

has  lost  himself," 

"It  would  not  be  so  bad  to  be  nothing,"  said  Ursula. 
"You  know  that  to  be  something  would  be  better." 
"Would  it,  with  the  temperament  of  Cassius?" 
"I  will  not  be  a  person  who  says  we  cannot  wish  it 

otherwise,  when  someone  has  died." 
"Then  you  will  be  unique." 
"Yes,  I  shall,"  said  Elton. 


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